


laws of the beast

by tagteamme



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: -jake peralta voice- road triiiiip!, Action/Adventure, Americana, Amnesia, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Human Experimentation, Canon-Typical Violence, Cults, M/M, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, POV Alternating, Physical Pain, Romance, Sci-Fi, Scientific Cults, Sexual Content, and that's sheith being in LOVE, happy ending cus y'all know what I'm about, on that note, trucker!allura
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-05-25 03:50:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 100,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14968490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tagteamme/pseuds/tagteamme
Summary: Under the scorching desert sun, Shiro picks up a hitchhiker who ends up saving his life— and claims to know him.“Getting away seemed like a good idea,” Shiro replies simply. It’s the standard answer he’s given to anyone that’s asked, and most people write it off as some sort of spiritual journey. Shiro knows he’s not trying to find himself in a grimy gas station or on heat-warped roads, but it’s a lot easier than explaining that he just had an impulse.“Yeah?” Keith turns his head lazily towards Shiro and raises an eyebrow. “From what?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story's a bit of a different pace for me but it's been one I've wanted to write since I joined the fandom so I hope y'all enjoy! The only important note I need to make right now is that in this fic, Shiro has his season 1-2 hair. 
> 
> [I also made a playlist for this fic ](https://open.spotify.com/user/w8u72bxda6djixl9agtvrh1t3/playlist/5yfTxcgc0Ce3G3h0KCzoiZ?si=dbg-yyYmSJqWiFLmO8-q4w)

The high afternoon sun beats down on Shiro’s black pickup as he pulls out onto the long stretch of road. He’s leaving behind an unusually glitzy gas station with a full tank and enough smoked jerky to ensure that he won’t have to interact with clumsy, spaced-out cashiers for a few hundred miles. The air conditioning is standing on its last legs, rattling and warbling out cool air, and Shiro’s praying to whoever is listening that it survives till he’s at least somewhere that feels a little less like an oven.

His cellphone sits on his passenger seat, GPS on, silent now like it has been for most of his journey back home. His father texts him occasionally, asking him if his trips going well and to tell him when Shiro’s back in town. No one else has really contacted him during his leave except for his neighbour, updating him about his cat. It’s fine though— it’s summer, and people like to spend time at the beach and at cottages and not worrying about their friend who fucked off to the other end of the country.

In a small blessing, the bags under his eyes have reduced significantly from when he started his cross-country drive home. It’s all for the better, because he doesn’t want his mother asking him why he still has to eat and sleep like a college kid stressing for finals. Shiro’s good at taking care of his body, and it shows, but whenever he has to drive this long, he allows himself some leeway.

The hum of the air conditioning grows, and Shiro thinks that the next time a distant relative dies and has a funeral across the country, he’s just going to fork out the money for a flight. He’s been driving since the crack of dawn, fuelled mostly on coffee that tastes like black tar and the need to not sleep in either his car or a cheap room with musky blankets that looked a lot more appealing on the website. The next motel Shiro’s going to has three stars out of five _and_ a continental breakfast. A couple more days of driving, and Shiro will be back in his apartment, on his couch with his cat and perhaps a dinner that wasn’t sourced from whatever the local gas station provides.

That’s what Shiro’s thinking about, mind drifting as he drives down the long straight stretch of road, when a figure steps out onto the road. Shiro swears loudly as he swerves his truck, instinctually slamming on the breaks. The truck drifts, and two cars behind him honk angrily as they speed around him. The seat belt jams and prevents Shiro from launching forward into his steering wheel as his brakes grind and his truck screeches to a stop.

When he looks up, there’s a man standing on the gravel, a lazy thumb stuck out as he looks at Shiro. There’s a red motorcycle on the shoulder of the road with its rear tire clearly blown out and Shiro can guess it belongs to the guy wearing the equally red jacket.

The man gives a little wave, and Shiro squints. He’s sorely tempted to U-turn away from the scene, ignore and be on his way. But there are a couple more cars driving past, and he has no other option other than to pull his truck off to the side of the road. He’s still in front of the motorcycle but after a moment of consideration, he puts his truck into reverse and starts to  slowly back up to where the man’s standing.

Shiro watches in the rearview mirror as the man steps off the road and starts to walk towards Shiro. Shiro comes to a stop when they’ve met in the middle, and the man comes  up to his window, crossing his arms over his chest as he waits. Shiro rolls down the window and the man’s expression is indiscernible behind his aviators.

“You okay over there?” Shiro asks, nodding his head towards the motorcycle. “You probably shouldn’t be stepping out onto the road like that. You’re gonna get hit.”

“Blew a tire,” the man replies and pushes his glasses up off the bridge of his nose, letting them settle on top of his head. “I was wondering if I could get a ride.”

The man looks younger without his sunglasses, but there’s still a keenness to how he looks. He’s in all black save for his jacket with dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail. Shiro vaguely thinks he looks like every stereotype of a motorcycle-riding bad boy ever, and he’s not surprised his tire blew out. Shiro’s also slightly worried that he’s started to sound like his father, save for the little voice at the back of his head that tells him that this man is also very, _very_ attractive.

“Where are you headed?” Shiro asks, continuing to silently assess the man against his better judgement.

“Northeast,” comes the reply, and the man scratches the back of his head. “But I'll go however far you want to take me.”

It’s a vague response that deserves a vague reply. Shiro should roll up his window and drive away instead of noting that the man’s features are sharp but his eyes are soft and boyish. His stance is casual, but there’s clear tension in the way he holds himself. The corners of his mouth turn up slightly like he’s trying to make himself appear friendly, and there’s a small thread of desire that loops around Shiro. He chalks it up to going a while without really interacting with anyone, and tries to snap it before it influences him.

“I can pay for gas,” The man offers after Shiro remains silent, and Shiro finds himself hard-pressed to say no.

 

* * *

 

His name is Keith, he’s twenty four, and he’s taking his annual pilgrimage into the desert. This time it’s been cut short by the fact that he was almost knocked off the road by a speeding truck. He’s pissed his tire blew out and no cheap shop’s going to be open on a Sunday, but he’s happy he didn’t end up roadkill. He doesn’t even have roadburn from his bike spinning out, and overall, Keith says he’s feeling pretty lucky even though his trip’s been cut short.

Shiro asks him why he takes a yearly trip, and Keith explains that sometimes he gets the itch to pack up and leave everything behind for a few weeks. The backpack Keith’s dropped at the back bench of the pickup looks too small, too light for a two-week excursion but at a glance, everything about Keith seems sparse and utilitarian. Somehow none of it screams serial-killer, and Shiro trusts his gut instinct enough.

They managed to load Keith’s motorcycle onto the bed of Shiro’s pickup. He knows he shouldn’t have, but Shiro’s told Keith that if he stays over at the same motel Shiro does, Shiro can take him further tomorrow. Or he can at least take Keith to a shop which won’t break the bank when he has to switch out his tires.

“Generous,” Keith says, and Shiro shrugs.

“Or I can drop you off on the side of the road,” He says with no real intent, and Keith offers a small smile in return.

Shiro tells himself it _is_ out of generosity and not because he’s going to be that sleaze that tries to bed a hitchhiker. He hasn’t been able to hold a conversation with anyone that’s lasted beyond a few words for almost two weeks, if he’s counting right. Keith’s the first person he’s met that’s not been shrouded in grief he can’t relate to, and he’s easy to talk to.

“So where are you heading?” Keith asks casually, propping an arm up on the door. He drums his fingers idly, off-time to whatever song’s on the radio.

“Maine,” Shiro replies, and Keith whistles.

“Scared of planes?” He asks, and Shiro lets out a short laugh.

“Driving seemed like a good idea at the time,” He says easily. “I had to go to a funeral for a relative.”

“My condolences,” Keith says. Shiro shrugs.

“No one I was close to,” He says easily, and Keith hums.

“That’s a long way to come for someone you’re not close to,” Keith observes, and hasn’t been the first one to do so.

“Getting away seemed like a good idea,” Shiro replies simply. It’s the standard answer he’s given to anyone that’s asked, and most people write it off as some sort of spiritual journey. Shiro knows he’s not trying to find himself in a grimy gas station or on heat-warped roads, but it’s a lot easier than explaining that he just had an impulse.

“Yeah?” Keith turns his head lazily towards Shiro and raises an eyebrow. “From what?”

Shiro opens his mouth, ready with a quip, but nothing comes out. Sometimes when the road stretches ahead like a never ending line, Shiro wonders why exactly he chose to drive. With the beating his car’s taken just from driving and the amount he’s spent on fuel, he’s sure that flying would have been a lot better than cruising across the country.

“I don’t know,” He frowns. “Just an impulse.”

Keith doesn’t reply, and Shiro steals a quick glance at him again. He’s looking back at Shiro, brow pinched with an indiscernible expression.

“What?” Keith’s gaze has the focus of a laser, and Shiro shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He’s not sure if he’s undergoing judgement or not, and it’s hard to get a read on the other man.

“Hell of an impulse,” Keith replies finally, looking back out of the front window. He says nothing afterwards, doesn’t ask any questions. Shiro can’t see where to take the conversation, so he lets silence settle over them like a blanket. They drive like this for the better part of two hours, until Shiro’s got to look for another gas station.

Keith gives him a couple of crumpled twenties to cover gas, helps Shiro check the air in his tires and goes into the station with Shiro as he pays. He gets them a bag of sour peaches for the road, but doesn’t eat any of them. He starts talking again when they’re back on the freeway,

“How far are we?” He asks, and Shiro checks the GPS on his phone.

“An hour away,” He replies, and Keith hums. “Are you going to stay over, or do you want me to drop you somewhere?”

“I’ll get a room,” Keith says. “I’ll ride with you tomorrow morning too, if it’s okay. I can cover gas again.”

They stop first at a diner across the motel to get greasy bags of takeout. Shiro’s tempted to ask Keith if he wants to sit down and have a proper dinner, but they have to leave early in the morning. Shiro’s planning to drive a ten hour stretch tomorrow; he doesn’t know how long or how far Keith’s planning to stick around, but he figures he’ll have enough time to talk to him and sate whatever curiosity he has. At any rate, it’ll kill enough of his boredom to hopefully keep him going till he reaches the east coast.

“Thanks again,” Keith says when Shiro’s finished checking in at the front desk. This motel’s fancy enough to have two receptionists, and Keith’s already gotten his room. “I’ll get you breakfast tomorrow.”

“Breakfast comes free here,” Shiro points out, and Keith rolls his eyes.

“I’ll get you an edible breakfast tomorrow,” Keith amends sagely. “One that won’t have you crying an hour into the journey.”

Shiro thinks he’s already got a stomach of steel from living off Funyuns and orange cola, but he’s not going to argue with an attractive stranger who wants to buy him a meal.

“I plan to leave early tomorrow,” Shiro informs Keith as they walk back towards the entrance. The door to Shiro’s room is close to where he’s parked, and Keith’s is across the courtyard. “We should be out by six-thirty at the latest.”

“Yes sir,” Keith presses two fingers to his forehead in a salute, and Shiro returns the gesture. “Bright and early.”

Shiro watches as Keith heads towards his room. It’s still early in the night— and Shiro’s tempted once again to wheedle his way into killing time with Keith. But he sees Keith slam the door to his room behind him, and thinks better of it. He makes his way to his own room with his oil-soaked dinner and looks over his shoulder one last time. He sees a shadow move from the window of Keith’s room and gives a little wave in return. The shadow waves back.

 

* * *

 

Shiro makes quick work of his dinner; his father calls as he’s brushing to check in with Shiro.

 _“Your mother’s worried,”_ His father’s voice sounds a little gruffer than usual. _“Thinks you’re probably eating bad and driving worse.”_

Shiro rolls his eyes before he remembers that his father can’t see that through the phone, so he spits and replies.

“Tell her I’ve gotten a ticket every day so far,” He says. “And that I’ve lived on nothing but gas station taquitos.”

 _“I doubt that last part’s a lie,”_ His father deadpans, and there’s a small rustling sound in the background. _“Listen, call me sometime in the afternoon tomorrow, okay? There’s something I need to talk to you about.”_

“Is everything okay?” Shiro asks in between rinsing his mouth out with water.

He takes a look at himself in the mirror; his face has tanned a little in the past few days, making the scar on his face stand out further in contrast. Keith hadn’t asked him about his scar or his arm, hadn’t asked why Shiro had a shock of white hair even though he was only a few years older than Keith. He hadn’t stared either, and it’s a low bar for decency but Shiro’s kind of glad he’s met it. He doesn’t think he’d be as generous to someone nosy.

 _“Everything’s fine,”_ Shiro’s father pauses, and Shiro wipes his face. _“It’s nothing big, but just remember to call me tomorrow_.”

“Sure thing,” Shiro replies. His father gives him a brief goodbye and hangs up. Shiro wipes his face on a towel that smells infinitely less damp than the one in his last room, and makes a beeline for his bed.

He shucks off his jeans and his shirt; he’s left his duffel bag of clothes in the car, because his current outfit’s not rank enough for him to care. It means less to haul in the morning, and he can roll off the bed and into his car relatively easily. He flops onto the mattress and turns on the television, flicking through for a grand total of five minutes before he lands on an Evangelical channel.

The man on the television is loud and boisterous and off-kilter enough that his antics amuse Shiro a little. It’s not enough to keep him from drifting off though, and the preaching turns into white noise as he falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

The television is still playing as Shiro wakes up to something dull and heavy tapping on the side of his head. It’s hard and annoying and Shiro rumbles, turning his head towards the offensive object. He comes face to face with the sleek, dark barrel and feels his body calcify.

“Rise and shine, darling,” There’s a looming figure beside his bed, speaking in a deep voice that grates like sandpaper.

Shiro only needs to blink a couple of times before the sleep’s completely gone from his eyes and he can make out the large, intimidating man attached to the gun pointing at his head. There’s a soft blue glow spilling into his room through the blinds that refused to close.

“Wh-” Shiro starts, but is interrupted by the mouth of the gun pressing against the skin of his forehead. It urges Shiro to turn his head back and look at the ceiling instead.

“No time for small talk,” The man replies. “It’s time for you to get up. Nice and slow, champ.”

Shiro’s normally a light sleeper. Any slight change in his environment, every concerning noise will have him shooting out of his bed in an instance. It’s a hassle sometimes, especially since he’s been so sleep deprived lately. As Shiro slowly sits up, the mouth of the gun following him up, he sees that his body betrayed him and apparently slept through eight people breaking into his motel room.

There are two stationed at the door, two in front of the window, and one in front of the bathroom. One stands at the foot of the bed, and the eight’s holding a gun to his head. Shiro feels disoriented, brain heavy and hazy with confusion.

“I think you have the wrong person,” He says slowly, and the man beside him laughs.

“I don’t think I do,” His replies with an amused lilt. “You’re hard to miss.”

This time, Shiro’s allowed to turn his head slowly and look at the man. He looks like a significantly hairier Wolverine, large and burly with a black eyepatch sitting on top of a scarred face. He smiles and it glints under the dim bedroom light.

“Long time no see,” He drawls. “Nice to run into you again, Shiro.”

“Who are you?” Shiro asks, and as soon as the man opens his mouth, Shiro finds a hair’s width of opportunity.

He lunges off the bed, landing on his feet as he manages to grab the elbow of the man and redirect his gun upwards. Shiro snakes his arm and grabs the man’s wrist, squeezing hard with his prosthetic hand till man yelps and drops his gun. Shiro winces but the gun doesn’t fire off, so he focuses on trying to swipe the man’s legs out. He steps out just in time but Shiro opts to headbutt him instead. The satisfying _crack_ and the following thud of the man hitting the carpet with his knees almost drowns out the sound of seven other guns softly clicking off their safety.

Almost.

Shiro raises his hand slowly, making sure he’s still acutely aware of the man groaning in pain at his feet. He sees the gun out of the corner of his eyes, but it’s the wrong distance for him to lean down and snatch it before anyone can fire a bullet.

“What do you want with me?” Shiro asks, and the response comes from the floor.

“We’re taking you home,” The man says, letting out a grunt as he hauls himself onto his feet. Shiro’s barely moved to keep him down before someone fires a warning shot into the ceiling, causing him to freeze.

“Next time, it’ll be you,” The person says before levelling Shiro with the gun again. “No more tricks.”

The man behind Shiro gets to his feet, grabs his gun. Shiro has maybe a fraction of a second to think before something hard thwacks him across the back of his head, hard enough for him to stumble forward. His eyes start to water and he turns around, a little dazed and tries to lunge again

There’s a loud _KRRRACK_ and Shiro finds himself eating blunt metal as he gets whipped by the gun again. The force of it brings him to his knees with a groan, and he can taste sharp iron in his mouth. He looks up at the man, and sees him thumb off the safety on his gun.

“We have to bring him back alive Sendak,” Shiro hears from behind, and the man just grins. “Boss’ orders.”

Shiro remains disoriented; there’s blood thundering through his ears, almost drowning out what the man - _Sendak -_ says next.

“Sure,” Sendak replies, lowering the muzzle of the gun. It’s pointing to Shiro’s left arm, and the man’s yellow grin widens. “Doesn’t have to be in one piece though.”

Panic grows in Shiro. He can feel his body start to tremble as Sendak slides his finger over the trigger, and he contemplates making one last leap for it. He’s got a pounding headache though, one that he knows will slow him down. He can fall back, he can try to duck out of the way, he needs to think and act fast otherwise—

There’s a sharp _pop_ accompanied by the sound of cracking glass. One of the guards by the window yells as the other one drops to the ground, and soon follows as the glass cracks again. Shiro hears a loud bang as the door to his room is flung open. Sendak immediately draws his gun back up, but another gunshot rings out and he drops his weapon. He clutches his hand and swears and Shiro sees blood erupt from his hand.

Shiro scrambles to his feet and grabs the gun, kicking out Sendak’s legs as he staggers angrily towards Shiro. Shiro whips around at the sound of someone yelling loudly, and sees Keith grab one of the other men by the collar and spin, just in time for the man to catch a bullet that one of his friends fires.

“Shiro!” Keith calls out his name, as he swivels and throws the body of the man into the other assailant. The other man throws his friend off, and charges towards Keith. “Shiro, get out!”

Shiro watches, dumbstruck, as Keith catches the man by his shoulder and jumps, catching him in a chokehold between his legs before bringing them both down. Shiro’s senses tingle and he turns around, just in time to see his own assailant try to crawl onto his hands. Shiro aims a hard kick to Sendak’s temple and someone yells in the distance.

Sendak gets knocked out by the force of Shiro’s blow, and he looks up to see the other man holding Keith in a chokehold.

“Shiro,” Keith’s voice is strained as he struggles against the other man’s thick forearms. “You gotta get out of here, you gotta run–”

The man squeezes tighter and Shiro knows that Keith’s trying to tuck his chin and twist out of the man’s strength, but the man’s got Keith lifted up onto his toes and Keith can’t find any purchase. Shiro needs to run, needs to get out of here and far away from this mess, get in his truck and do a straight thirty hour drive home.

He also sees Keith, face completely red as his airway is _completely_ shut off, and before his mind can tell his body what to do, his hands are raising automatically.

Shiro hasn’t been around guns a lot, but he aims with surety. His hands barely shake as he grips the butt with both hands, and slides his finger over the trigger.

The man howls and drops Keith as soon as the sound cracks through the air; Shiro’s landed the shot in his foot, and recovers fast from the small recoil. As soon as Keith’s feet hit the ground, he delivers a hard blow to the side of the man’s head, effectively knocking him out. He stands, heaving over the bodies, and stares up at Shiro.

“Thanks,” He says, voice is hoarse and breathless.

“Any time,” Shiro whispers faintly, unable to take his eyes off Keith. He’s about to ask Keith how exactly he had known to come to Shiro’s rescue, when there’s a muffled crack in the distance.

“Shit,” Keith swears as he glances out the window. “Shit shit shit. That’s a warning. Shiro, let’s go.”

Before Shiro can ask what’s happening, Keith lunges for him and grabs his wrist. He starts hauling Shiro out of the motel door and grabs Shiro’s jacket from the chair on the way out– presumably for his car keys because as soon as they step out, Keith’s yanking him in a beeline towards Shiro’s pickup.

“We have to go,” Keith repeats, digging into the pockets of Shiro’s jacket frantically. He finds the keys and throws them towards Shiro, and Shiro has a thousand questions burning through him. But he’s still dazed— all he knows that he was attacked, was almost _kidnapped_ and the man currently shoving him into the driver’s seat of his car is the same man who had broke down the door to his room to save him.

“Are you okay to drive?” Keith asks as soon as he jumps into the passenger seat. He slams the door shut and keeps his eyes out on the parking lot as he digs through his person. Shiro watches as Keith’s hands slide under his own jacket. To Shiro’s mild surprise, Keith pulls a plastic black flip phone.There’s a screeching of cars in the parking lot. Keith’s eyes widen as three large SUVs pull up in front of the door to Shiro’s room.

“Takashi we have to _go_ ,” Keith hisses, opening the phone. “Before they see us.”

Two burly men step out of the first SUV and rap on the door. Shiro doesn't need to be told again; he ignites the engine. It's tempting to tear out of the parking lot, but he takes care to reverse out at a normal speed, slow enough that none of the burly men barging into his motel room take notice. Keith is practically vibrating beside him, and Shiro understands. But a truck ripping out is going to draw a lot more attention than someone idly leaving the parking lot, so he keeps a wary eye on the rear view mirror. No one tails them as he turns out, no one stops and yells and gives them away.

“Take the freeway,” Keith says, looking frantically over his shoulder. “We should still head north-east.”

Shiro obeys without a word. He pulls up to the light before the ramp and takes a moment to look over at Keith. Keith’s got a frantic look on his face and a beautiful bruise forming on his chin, and he doesn’t turn back around till Shiro’s pulling up the ramp and merging onto the highway.

“We have to head at least ninety miles up,” Keith says, flipping open his phone. “I think I can still access a safe house there.”

“A safe house?” Shiro’s incredibly out of his depth now, and is hesitant in putting so much trust in the lap of a man that’s essentially a stranger. Keith’s saved him, but Shiro’s watched enough true crime documentaries to wonder if he’s hopping out of the pan and into the fire.

“They’ll catch on that we’ve left soon enough, and they’re going to be crawling for us,” Keith’s tapping furiously away on his phone. “I know a place where we can lose them for the day at least.”

“And I should trust you?” Shiro asks bluntly. The sun is cracking over the horizon and slowly lighting up the road that stretches ahead of them. Shiro steals a glance when Keith doesn’t reply, and sees him looking at Shiro in a way that Shiro would call wounded if he knew the man. Keith catches the eye contact and immediately schools his face into a neutral expression.

“If you want to split, you can,” he says steadily, calm and soothing like he’s talking to a scared animal. “But more of those guys are coming, and they’ll find you. I can protect you from them.”

These are heavy promises from someone Shiro’s met less than twenty four hours ago, but there’s conviction in Keith’s words that reaches him to his core. It’s still a foolish act to put faith in a stranger so easily, but this stranger had burst into his motel room and saved him.

And Shiro’s gut tells him that Keith’s his best option for now. Shiro trusts his gut, even if it’s just barely, and knows he’s still rattled from waking up to a gun to his face. There’s also one more thing, one more thing that tells Shiro he’s missing a piece of the puzzle, one more thing that tells him to both trust Keith and be wary of him.

“You called me by my first name,” he says and Keith looks at him, slightly bemused.

“Okay,” Keith says, when Shiro doesn’t elaborate. “We were under duress.”

“Yeah,” Shiro agrees, furrowing his brow. Keith sits up a little straighter in his seat. “But I never told it to you.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

“And I should trust you?”

It’s a question Keith’s prepared for. It’s a question he knows Shiro would ask. It’s a question that burns like a hot iron, even as he gives his answer with a steady voice.

_But I never told it to you._

What he hasn’t accounted for is the way he had slipped up and has called Shiro by his full name. He means to lie when Shiro brings it up. Keith means to tell him he overheard Shiro give the name at the reception. He means to tell Shiro that he read it on something ancillary in the car while he was bored.

“I know you,” Keith says instead, and the crease between Shiro’s brows grows deep.

“We just met yesterday,” Shiro replies slowly. “I don’t even know your last name.”

Keith tries his best not to look too pained at the words. Suspicion laces Shiro’s voice and Keith can’t blame him. If everything he has been told is correct, then Shiro has no basis to trust Keith, even if he saved Shiro.

“I know you,” He repeats quietly, and Shiro still looks steadily incensed. “We know each other.”

A fraction of the truth, but the truth nonetheless. Shiro’s expression pinches further and Keith wants to reach out and smooth out the lines in his face. But Shiro doesn’t know him, doesn’t know that’s a thing that Keith did that he had liked. Keith’s sending out a prayer to whoever’s listening that it’s not permanent.

“No we don’t,” Shiro reiterates flatly, with so much certainty that it twists Keith’s gut. “I’m good with faces and I can’t remember yours.”

Keith doesn’t know how to answer that. He’s glad that natural stoicism is a hereditary trait, otherwise Shiro would be able to tell that Keith is so nervous he’s ready to vomit. He glances over his shoulder again, and watches empty road roll away behind him. He’s still keyed up from the fight and still paranoid that they’re going to get caught, and he needs Shiro to trust him enough to get him to a safehouse.

“We met before your accident,” Keith says finally. He hopes the information he had been given is accurate, “I think that’s why you don’t remember me.”

Shiro doesn’t look like he fully buys it, and anxiety rolls over Keith like a wave. He looks at Shiro but Shiro says nothing, just grips the steering wheel tighter as he drives. Keith waits, but no response comes. A tremor runs through his hands, but he steadies them against his thighs and clenches them into fists.

Finally, Shiro speaks.

“Where do we get off?” He asks, and the relief Keith feels is only surface level.

 

* * *

 

The safe house is blissfully empty when Keith and Shiro arrive. It’s a small ranch house tucked in between two larger farms with a weathered _FOR SALE_ sign tethered to the front lawn. It swings and creaks in the light breeze, and there’s no cars to be seen anywhere on the lot. It’s right off the freeway, close enough for them to make a hasty departure if they need to.

The ride has been painfully silent, but Keith’s thankful that Shiro hasn’t decided to ditch Keith and head east on his own. It’s easier for him to protect Shiro if he’s beside him, than if he’s hovering in the shadows and watching from afar.

They have around twenty minutes before the others join them, so Keith asks Shiro if he’s hurt anywhere aside from the giant bruise blooming on his jawbone from where he had been pistol-whipped. They’ve retrieved Shiro’s duffle bag, and Shiro’s managed to get into some clothes.

“Who are the others?” Shiro asks, and Keith presses his lips together.

They’re in the small kitchen of the house, blinds drawn shut. There’s a thin layer of dust over everything in the house, but Keith knows that everything in the cabinets will be relatively usable. Shiro’s got a headache from how hard he had been hit by Sendak and Keith’s determined to find where the painkillers are stowed.

“Others that want to help you,” He says, searching through the cupboards. He finds a bottle of unopened Tylenol; it expired last month, which means it’s newer than Keith expected. He tosses the bottle to Shiro, making sure he catches it before turning back and pressing down on one of the plastic blinds.

The driveway in front of the house is empty, and there are only a couple of cars that pass by on the road. He hears the soft pop of Shiro tearing the seal, and turns to watch Shiro swallow two pills dry. It’s late in the morning now, so Keith rummages for food that’s hopefully not gone bad. He finds instant oatmeal and two plastic bowls that smell like they’ve been left out in the sun for too long. There’s no microwave in the house, so Keith makes quick work of emptying two plastic bottles of water from the fridge into a small pot and setting it out to boil.

Shiro watches Keith in hawk-like silence the entire time. Keith can feel his eyes on the back of his neck as he turns the dial on the stovetop, can feel the weight of the gaze. When he’s done and waiting for the water to heat, he digs into his pockets and pulls out a folded photograph.

“Here,” He says, walking over to the wooden table Shiro’s sitting at. Shiro takes the paper gingerly, looks at Keith as he unfolds it. Faint white lines run over where the photo’s creased permanently, but the image is still clear; it’s Keith, sitting and trying his best to glare at the camera, while Shiro looks genial and flushed pink. He’s got a beer bottle in each hand, while Keith holds onto an empty one, and the cushion of the booth behind them is green and cracked.

“We know each other,” Keith says, watching as Shiro runs a thumb over the photograph. “From before the accident.”

“From before the accident,” Shiro repeats, staring at the image. He’s running his finger over where his hair’s still pitch black, where he’s still got two human hands instead of a cybernetic one. A long moment passes, and no sense of recognition makes itself known on Shiro’s face.

“We’re friends,” He finally states, and Keith nods. “But the accident was a year and a half ago. You only just found me?”

“I’ve been looking,” Keith immediately insists, ignoring the way the question tugs at his heart. “You were a hard man to track down.”

He knows Shiro is just speaking objectively, but it pokes at the mountain of self-doubt that’s been festering in Keith for a while. Keith knows that a year and a half is a long time; in his weak defense, he thought he had buried Shiro a year back. At that point, he had still refused to accept that Shiro was dead and in the end, Keith’s stubbornness has proved to be a small grace.

“Why were you looking?” Shiro asks again, just as the water starts to properly boil.

It’s not an answer Keith can give Shiro. Not yet, anyways, when he seems reticent to accept the fact that they knew each other from before. Keith mulls over what to say, how to water it down in a way where Shiro won’t be able to tell that he’s not telling the full truth. He empties out the paper packets of oatmeal into the bowls before pouring in the boiling water. Keith stirs the beige oatmeal, and the faint scent of cinnamon and freeze-dried apple floats up.

“Told you I’d get you breakfast,” Keith tries to sound casual as he walks over to the table and sets Shiro’s bowl down in front of him. “And once I found out you were here, I knew you’d be in danger.”

“Those men that followed me?” Shiro asks, and Keith nods. “What do you mean, once you found out I was here?”

“I’ve been looking for you for a while,” Keith replies honestly. “But I don’t know who those men are exactly. Or what they want to do with you. All I know is that you’re in danger.”

Shiro looks like he has another question on the tip of his tongue, but opts to spoon some oatmeal into his mouth. He winces at the taste and Keith doesn’t blame him; the food tastes greasy and sweet and generally a lot older than the box claims it is. His shoulders have relaxed by a fraction, but Shiro still holds himself with weariness and it reminds Keith of a memory he keeps close.

It’s Shiro, crouched in the dirt by Keith’s motorcycle as he inspects it, humming in appreciation. In this memory, Keith’s eighteen and sick of riding what essentially is a glorified dirt bike. He’s taken a chunk of his savings, enough to get his dad agitated, and has bought himself something sleek and red and sporty. It’s a little old but it’s in working condition and the first thing Keith has done after buying it is taking it to the Garrison so that he could show it off to his best friend.

There are many memories Keith has with Shiro; Shiro giving him a lopsided smile as he tells Keith the bike’s “okay, I _guess_ ” and then quickly stepping out of the way of a playful punch is nothing special. But it still pained him to his core when he became aware of the memory fading, months after Shiro had gone missing.

The edges of it had started to age like a poorly kept photograph; Keith didn’t know if he was remembering the playful nature of Shiro’s voice or the creases in his jacket correctly. Keith had once dreamt of the memory; in the dream, the sky had been overcast, and when Keith had woken up, his chest had been wracked with guilt of not knowing if the sun had actually been out that day.

Now that Shiro's sitting at the table with him, the memory floods back, the dust and grime of time sliding off. It had been sunny; Keith now remembers the specific way the light glinted off Shiro’s hair. He remembers the smell of the cologne Shiro used to always overuse. He remembers the exact timbre of Shiro’s voice, remembers why the memory is so important.

Shiro looks different now. He still holds himself like a soldier, ramrod straight back and sharp eyes. But his shoulders slump a little more, and he’s got prominent white in his hair. There’s a scar on his face and a strange prosthetic that’s more advanced than anything Keith’s ever seen.

But it’s Shiro.

There’s a rumbling outside on the driveway, and Keith shoves aside his chair to rush to the window by the door. He peeks through the blinds and sees a familiar yellow Wrangler pull onto the dusty road. The jeep’s got a familiar dent and no plates in the front, and Keith breathes a sigh of relief.

“Help’s arrived,” Keith announces to Shiro before opening the front door slowly.

Hunk and Lance stand at attention, each carrying an assortment of plastic bags. The faint smell of fish and chips curls around Keith’s nose and he thinks about the pathetic oatmeal sitting on the kitchen table. They try to step in, and Keith can see Lance open his mouth, so he holds up both his hands and stops them before they can enter.

“He doesn’t know any of us,” Keith says quietly, and Hunk frowns. “He doesn’t remember me either, so don’t go in yelling.”

“He doesn’t remember you?” Lance raises his eyebrows, and exchanges a glance with Hunk. Keith knows what they’re thinking, they’ve never made any efforts to ever hide their faces, but they also thankfully don’t verbalize their thoughts.

“Where’s Pidge?” Keith asks instead, craning his neck as he ushers them in. “Allura?”

“They’re with Coran,” Hunk replies as he steps in. “Shiro?”

Shiro’s already straightened up at attention; no sort of recognition crosses his face when he sees Hunk and Lance walk towards him with their bags, but Keith can see him perk a little at the smell. They’ve brought food, _real_ food that doesn’t taste regurgitated before it’s even been eaten.

“This is Hunk and Lance,” Keith supplies as they make their way in. They don’t approach Shiro directly; Hunk sets the bag of take-out down on the dining table, while Lance pulls up a chair on the other end. “They’re here to help as well.”

“Help protect me?” Shiro looks at the two of them uneasily. Keith doesn’t know what’s going on in Shiro’s head, but he can tell when Shiro’s trying to process and assess information. He doesn’t look like he’s ready to bolt yet, but he does look like it won’t take him much to push him there.

“Yep,” Lance points his index finger at Shiro and pops the _p_ as he crooks a thumb. “Here to lend a hand. Or take one out.”

“Good timing with that,” Keith says, peering into the bags. “We were way too outnumbered.”

He sees Shiro eyeing one, and Keith swats away Lance’s hand before he can grab it. He hands it over to Shiro, and Lance miraculously doesn’t complain. He gives Keith a look of pity instead, and somehow that’s worse.

“Eat as much as you need to,” Keith tells Shiro as he picks out a styrofoam box filled with fried cod. “You’ll need the energy.”

“Sleep too,” Hunk adds. “You too, Keith.”

Keith’s about to open his mouth, about to protest, when a loud cheerful ringtone goes off. He freezes, along with Hunk and Lance, but Shiro leaps to his feet.

“My jacket,” He rushes. “Where’s my jacket?”

Keith watches as Shiro runs to where his jacket’s been dumped on the living room couch, and pulls out his phone from his jacket.

“Dad?” He says almost immediately. “Dad, yeah, I’m okay.”

Keith frowns. He looks over at Hunk and Lance, and they look equally confused. Shiro looks at them, and Keith doesn’t drop his stare.

“If you want privacy, you can go to the bedroom,” Hunk offers, and Shiro nods distractedly.

Keith wants to stop Shiro from stepping out of his sight, but knows it’s going to look bad if he says anything. He shoots a glare at Hunk instead but Hunk just shrugs in response. As soon as the bedroom door shuts on them, Hunk and Lance immediately turn on Keith.

“Don’t,” He cuts them off before they can even start. He looks at the door of the bedroom, and can’t hear anything. Shiro’s probably whispering, probably giving a play-by-play on the phone of what’s transpired.

“I just want to know if you’re okay,” Hunk asks anyways. “You said he doesn’t remember you, right? That’s gotta be rough.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Keith says, crossing his arms over his chest. “As long as he’s safe and alive.”

When Keith had stepped out onto the road, thumb out to catch the eye of a particular pickup truck, he had been laced with enough anti-anxiety medication that he could come face to face with God and keep his calm. It had lasted him through easy conversation with Shiro and had allowed him to assess what state Shiro is in. By that time, Keith had already known that there were large gaps in Shiro’s memory. Keith had been given that information, but had also experienced it first hand.

Before yesterday, he had been tracking Shiro for a little over two weeks and had “accidentally” run into him at a 24/7 grocery store in the first few days. The polite “excuse me” and the quick brush of Shiro trying to squeeze in between Keith and a narrow aisle had completely crushed Keith to the point where he had to sit in a parking lot for ten minutes before he could breathe properly again. But after, Keith had rallied, had gathered his allies, had scraped together what little resources he had to keep tracking Shiro down and finally orchestrate the moment where he could properly meet him again.

Keith doesn’t know when Shiro will remember him again. He doesn’t know _if_ Shiro will remember him again. But he’s Shiro, alive in the flesh which is so much more than Keith could have even hoped for. It far surpasses any hurt Keith feels at the fact that Shiro looks at him like a total stranger.

“Are you going to tell him?” Lance asks, and Keith shrugs.

“He knows we were friends,” Keith says, and then quickly amends. “Are friends.”

Lance opens his mouth but Shiro steps out just as he’s about to speak. Shiro doesn’t look any further at ease than he did before. He’s still got his phone pressed to his ear, and looks directly at Keith.

“Are you sure?” He says, and there’s a tinny reply that Keith can’t discern. “Alright. Thank you. Yeah, I will.”

Shiro holds out the phone to Keith, and Keith frowns.

“My dad wants to talk to you,” Shiro says. “Says he knows you. Says he trusts you.”

Shiro doesn’t look like he believes his own words, but Keith takes the phone from him anyways.

“Hello?” He says, and the voice that answers is gruff and familiar.

 _“Keith_ ,” The man on the other end replies. “ _We need to talk_.”

“Yeah,” Keith replies, and can feel the intensity with which Shiro is staring him down. “Yeah we do.”

 _“Alone_ ,” The man says. “ _It’s best he doesn’t hear this_.”

 

* * *

 

The twenty minutes Keith spends holed up in the bedroom are some of the longest in his life. When he re-emerges from the bedroom, he tries not to look too ashen-faced as he gives the phone back to shiro.

“What did my father say?” Shiro asks, and Keith steels himself and tries to hide what he feels on his face.

“Said to keep you safe,” Keith answers. It’s not exactly a lie. “I told him what had happened, and he’s said to get you east as soon as possible.”

“So are we leaving now?” Hunk pipes up, and Keith nods.

“Half an hour to gather supplies and plan,” He says. “Then we’re out. We're still too close to where they got the drop.”

“But you picked-” Lance starts, but Hunk presses a hand against his chest and shakes his head. Lance shuts up, but doesn’t look too happy about it as he stands up.

Keith directs Shiro to gather as much aid as he can. Whatever Shiro had been told over the phone has made him a little more amenable to listening to Keith. He still eyes him warily, but he dutifully takes his duffle bag and heads towards the bathroom.

“We’re going to drive directly east first,” Keith tells Hunk. “They’ve probably already left the motel, but there were no real indicator where we were going. I don’t know how many people they’re sending in how many directions, either.”

“We’ll cushion,” Hunk replies, digging out his own phone. “I’ll call the others and tell them to start one as well. The castle will park two hours out, Pidge will park one, and Lance and I will be your fifteen minute warning.”

“Sure,” Keith says as Hunk retreats. He’s about to pull his own phone out, when he feels a hand on his shoulder.

The touch is intimate, heavily familiar in a jarring way. Keith turns on instinct, and the face that greets him is not.

“Where are we going?” Shiro asks, visibly scanning Keith’s face.

“East,” Keith replies, trying not to think too deeply about the weight on his shoulder. “You can sleep and I can drive, if you want.”

“East?” Shiro prods, but Keith doesn’t know what else to say. “What did my father say?”

“He uh,” Keith frantically searches his brain. He wants to tell everything he was told to Shiro, but they don’t have time. “I’ll tell you when we leave, but he told me to keep you safe.”

Shiro doesn’t remove his hand from Keith’s shoulder. Instead, he curls his fingers in, gripping it tighter like he’s trying to root Keith down.

“Keith,” He begins solemnly. “If I need to trust you-”

“Guys,” Hunk’s voice cuts through, frantic and sharp. “Guys, our window of time just got cut down.”

“What?” Keith whips around to see Lance frantically shoving the food into one bag. “What, why?”

“Allura said the people who attacked you are on the move,” Hunk says, throwing a pair of keys to Lance. “And they’re heading our way. They’re closing in pretty fast, actually. We’re taking your bike, okay?”

“You’re taking my what?” Keith asks, but Lance is already heading out the door. He casts a frantic look towards Shiro but the shocked and uncertain look on Shiro’s face reminds Keith that he needs to be the one calling the shots here.

“You’re not exactly conspicuous with a bright red motorcycle on your bed,” Hunk says, yanking open the blinds that face the freeway. “You and Shiro get a headstart, Lance and I will join you guys later. Just incase we need to buy you time.”

“Wait,” Shiro’s grip on Keith’s shoulder turns vice-like now, and Keith grunts. “Who’s after us?”

“The man who’s after you,” Keith says slowly, trying to duck out of Shiro’s hold. “The man who’s after you, he wants to capture you Shiro. He wants to take you in and right now he’s ready to kill you.”

“I know,” Shiro says. “But who _are_ they?”

“I don’t know-”

“I think you do,” Shiro says, and Keith’s taken aback at how his compliancy has done a total 180. “I think you’re holding something back from me.”

“What?” Keith says incredulously, raising his eyebrows.

“My father said to trust you,” Shiro says steadily. They’re running out of time, and Keith’s starting to panic. “But he said you know a lot more than you’re letting on.”

“Shiro, he’s not–” _Not your father_. The words almost slip out of Keith’s mouth, but he knows that’ll send Shiro into a frenzied state. He needs Shiro as coherent as possible and if anything, he needs Shiro to _move_. So instead, he begs.

“We’re heading as east as we can go,” Keith says, pouring as much insistence into his words as he can. “I don’t know where yet for sure, but the first place that seems safe. All I want to do is keep you safe.”

Shiro frowns, looks at Keith searchingly. “Who _are_ you?”

The question hits with the impact of a bullet, and Keith feels his chest tighten. Suddenly, the room feels too small, the house feels too small, Keith’s heart feels too big in a bad way and threatens to burst out. Shiro’s not letting go but Keith’s body can’t decide if that’s a point of comfort or anxiety.

“Let go,” Hunk steps in between them, forcibly prying Shiro’s hand off Keith’s shoulder. “Jesus, a man saves your life.”

There is pin-drop silence for a second and then a loud crash. Keith can hear Lance’s voice, muffled as it swears at his bike, and it snaps him back to the moment, back to the objective.

“He’s disoriented,” Keith manages to say, side stepping Hunk. “He doesn’t know us. He doesn’t remember us.”

Keith raises his hands in a placating manner, and Hunk makes way for him. Shiro steps back, but doesn’t make any other move.

“I’m Keith,” He speaks slowly and evenly. “And you can stay. Or you can go somewhere else. You don’t have to come with me but if you do, I can keep you safe. I don’t know who’s after you, but I can keep you safe.”

Not that Keith will ever leave Shiro on his own, even if Shiro decides to part ways. He hopes he has enough conviction in his voice to convince Shiro but if he doesn’t, he’s not going to pretend that he’s not going to keep an eye on Shiro from a close but hidden distance.

“Your father said to trust me,” Keith appeals again, his voice cracking slightly near the end. “Please, Shiro. Let me protect you.”

“Or let us go,” Hunk pipes in, sounding agitated. “Just make a decision so we can save ourselves accordingly.”

Shiro looks like he’s going to say no. Keith’s already thinking of a plan for what to do if he does, thinks about how he can keep a proper trail now that Shiro knows how he looks like. Thinks about how he’s going to do that with a motorcycle that’s got it’s tires blown out, how he’s going to do it when Hunk’s jeep is too memorable and Lance’s car is probably too far.

“Okay,” Shiro says, to Keith's utter relief. “Okay, let’s do this.”

 

* * *

 

It takes them a tense and quiet six hours to drive to a roadside motel that Keith deems safe enough. It’s in stark contrast to the easy conversation they had the day before. Keith makes sure he remembers that comfort, because he doesn’t know when he’ll see it again.

Even as the safe house had receded rapidly into the distance, Keith had felt a looming sense of dread that hasn’t quite left him. It’s stronger than the cloud that’s been following him for a year, and he thinks it has something to do with how hard Shiro had gripped the steering wheel the entire ride there.

It was at a gas station at the half-way point that Keith debated telling Shiro the truth about his father. While he filled up gas, Shiro had asked Keith how much more they had to drive without knowing what exactly was going on. Keith had felt bad for not giving Shiro every single bit of information that he knew. But for now, Shiro’s father was his security. Shiro’s father was the reason he went along with Keith at all.

Shiro prodded at Keith a little during the drive, and Keith told him what he could. Told Shiro that he’s been looking for Shiro for a while. Told Shiro that the man after him is unknown, but dangerous. Told Shiro that he’s been looking for Shiro for a long time.

“How long?” Shiro had asked, and Keith didn’t exactly lie.

“A few weeks,” He replied and Shiro had made an indiscernible noise.

“That’s a while,” Shiro had commented, earning a forced casual shrug from Keith.

“It’s what you do when you’re close with someone,” Keith had answered simple.

Keith doesn’t tell Shiro that he had lost him for a year and a half, and had thought he was dead for the first six months. He doesn’t tell Shiro that he’s been looking for answers for a year, doesn’t tell him the flood of relief when he found Shiro alive and well and only five counties over.

Keith will tell him, of course. Along with everything else. But later.

Later, later, _later_.

Keith can’t blame Shiro at all for acting like a frightened animal. He’s not stupid and neither is Shiro, and Keith knows that deep within, Shiro’s probably wary of Keith’s intentions when it comes to saving him. He doesn’t have blind trust in Keith— not anymore, anyways. Keith’s going to fight long and hard to get it back but if he doesn’t then–

Then it’s _fine_ , he tells himself for the thousandth time. It’s fine, and it’ll be a small price to pay if Shiro’s kept safe.

Keith’s been trying hard to keep a lid on his feelings, even as they check into a dusty motel room with two queen beds. They’re sleeping in their clothes, just in case they have to go on the run again. Keith doesn’t know how he’s going to sleep at all, but his team has called and told them that they’ve formed a good cushion around Shiro and Keith’s location. Sleeping in a high-stress situation is nothing new for either of them, but he hopes Shiro remembers.

It’s quiet in the motel room.

Keith’s currently sitting at the rickety dining table, waiting for Shiro to finish brushing his teeth. He’s studying a road map of the nearby area, memorizing what towns and cities lay where. He’s tried talking more to Shiro, but Shiro looks like he’s still trying to process the situation he’s found himself in. Keith’s never been one to be talkative to begin with, and there’s a large valley where their mutual comfort once was.

It hurts to think about it, so Keith pours all his concentration into the map. He hears Shiro spit in the sink and run the water, but the familiarity ends when Shiro steps out and heads towards the bed against the wall. Keith’s sleeping near the door, just in case.

“Hey,” Shiro says softly, and Keith looks up. Shiro’s sitting on the foot of his bed, giving Keith the same searching look he had been wearing before.

“Yeah?” Keith asks, folding the map down. The table shakes gently with the action, but Keith steadies it.

“I’m sorry I got angry back in the safe house,” Shiro says, and Keith’s about to tell him that it’s okay, that he understands, but Shiro presses onwards. “I’m just really confused. And frankly, terrified.”

“I get it,” Keith says. “I get why you wouldn’t trust me. You said you don’t know me.”

“Yeah,” Shiro says, and hearing an agreement is as hard as saying the words. “Yeah, but you saved me. And my father knows you. And you have that picture.”

Keith says nothing at that. Two of those are truths, and one of them isn’t quite full, but Keith doesn’t think that this is the time to correct Shiro. Not till Shiro is further away from Sendak and his gang anyways.

“It’s nothing,” Keith replies quietly. “It’s okay. I still get it. You were in shock.”

“I was,” Shiro agrees. “And I think I still am. But I think I also trust you.”

Keith looks properly at Shiro, and is met with an open, vulnerable gaze. A weight he hadn’t been aware of before eases slightly off Keith’s chest, enough for him to breathe a little. There’s still uncertainty in the way Shiro exists around Keith but this. This, Keith can work with. This he will take as a blessing.

It puts him as ease when they turn down for the night and Shiro rolls onto his back on a bed that’s separate from Keith’s. There’s only a few feet between them, but the distance still yawns dark and wide and reminds Keith of what he’s lost.

Something new glimmers though. The rest can come later, will hopefully come later, but this small modicum of trust is what Keith will carry with him.

* * *

 

Keith’s woken by a shrill ringing— his phone’s screaming at him from his bedside table. The screen’s got the number of Hunk’s burner phone scrawled across it and Keith frowns.

“Hello?” His voice is still groggy, but the urgency on the other line quickly snaps him out of it.

 _“You have to get out of there,_ ” It’s Hunk, and he’s practically shouting it into the phone. There’s a loud pop in the background and yelling and Keith can hear Lance swear. “ _You have thirty seconds, maybe_. _Uh, fifteen. Shit-”_

The line goes dead, but Keith’s already moving off the bed. He’s gotten maybe a handful of hours of sleep over the past couple of days and today has been no different, but as soon as it’s clear that danger’s imminent, Keith’s up and raring to go. He approaches Shiro’s bed and shakes him by the shoulder, forgoing all forms of gentleness. Shiro shoots up, but Keith keeps his hand on his shoulder to steady him.

“It’s me, it’s me,” Keith says because even in the dark, he can feel Shiro’s wariness radiate off of him. “We have to go. They got the jump on Hunk and Lance and they’re coming for us.”

“Same guys?” Shiro asks, but Keith’s already grabbing his bag off the dining table. This time, Shiro goes along obediently, sliding into his shoes and straightening out of his shirt. Keith has to take three deep breaths to calm himself down and not kick down the door and take off with Shiro at full-tilt.

Quietly, they exit their motel room. Keith tries hard not to let the soft crunch of the gravel under their feet bother him, and focuses instead on assessing their environment. Only the parking lot is lit by the dull orange of the tungsten lamps. Past that, it’s pitch black and Keith can’t make out any headlights in the distance. He can hear a very faint rumble— it’s the sound of more than one car barrelling down the road, and he knows they’re going to be in hot water real soon if they don’t act fast.

“Let me drive,” He tells Shiro and Shiro almost stops dead in his tracks. Keith’s panicked look must be sufficiently manic, because Shiro throws him the keys without a single word.

Keith practically vaults into the driver’s seat and by the time Shiro slides in, he’s already released the break. He knows that last time, Shiro had left the parking lot slowly as to avoid attention. They can’t afford to do that right now though so as soon as they’ve reversed out of the parking lot, Keith drops his foot down like lead on the pedal.

They peel out of the parking lot and onto the highway, and Keith can see pinpricks of bright light start to emerge behind them. They’re high-beams, and he flips the rearview mirror so that it doesn’t blind him, keeping an eye on how large the light gets from his side mirrors.

Shiro’s truck isn’t in the best condition; it groans and strains as Keith continues to push it further. Shiro’s holding onto the door, and he looks over his shoulder frantically.

“There’s five of them,” He hisses. “They’re fast, Keith-”

“I _know_ ,” Keith grits out, and drops off the pedal to let it breathe a little before he presses down harder.

The speedometer ticks upwards, and Keith prays to any god listening that he’s remembered the roads right, that he’s not going to have to take a sudden sharp turn that’ll send them careening. He can hear the wind whipping against the metal of the car as they fun it down the highway, and his heart thuds louder when he sees the headlights in the back grow larger anyways.

Keith hears rummaging, but he can’t afford to sneak a glance.

“What are you doing?” He asks, and Shiro swears as he shifts through the papers of his glove compartment.

“I swear I had a gun in here,” He says, sounding heavily troubled. “I can’t find it now.”

“Your Beretta?” Keith asks, keeping a wary eye on how far the lights are. He’s really tempted to drive completely off road and into one of the fields, but he knows that if he stays on the road, there’s a small chance it’ll pick up the attention of a bored state trooper. If they see multiple cars involved, there might be a chance that Keith and Shiro are going to get saved by police intervention.

“Yeah,” Shiro says. “How’d you know?”

“Check my bag,” Keith says. “I didn’t have anything on me so I took it for our safehouse.”

“When’d you take it?” Shiro asks, and there’s confusion in his voice as he unzips Keith’s bag. Keith’s about to answer, about to tell him that Keith’s trained in being lethally quiet when no one’s looking, but the truck suddenly hits something on the road.

The vehicle bounces, and there’s a loud pop followed by a guttural screech as the tires of Shiro’s truck blows out. Instinctually, Keith lets go of the accelerator but makes no effort to break, trying to ride out as much as he can until–

They’re coming up on a white RV parked across the width of the road, and Keith _thinks_ he sees the shadow of people trapped in the front seat. His headlight floods the car of the trailer and he realises that there are people, bound and tied in the car with terror in their eyes that can be seen from a mile out. Their faces are red behind the duct tape, and one of them has very pointed black eye. The tires aren’t flat on the trailer— they’re completely gone, and the two women inside have no escape if Keith doesn’t stop.

Keith twists the wheel fast, causing the truck to drift. He feels it teeter just the slightest, and his heart almost stops. He steals one last glance at Shiro, who looks as wide eyed and terrified as Keith feels. Keith knows that whatever stoic composure he naturally is broken as soon as they hear the bumper squeal as it skims the trailer.

The brakes protest when Keith steps down on them, and the truck grinds to a halt. They’re thrown forward in the seats by the momentum, and Keith can feel the seatbelt imprint itself on his chest. His heart hammers as he sees the headlights come up a _lot_ faster than he expected.

“We need to go save them,” Shiro rushes, and he’s already unbuckling his seatbelt, but Keith presses a palm against his chest.

“Hold on,” Keith angles the rearview mirror. “Shit. _Shit_.”

“Keith-” Shiro starts, but Keith shakes his head and tips his chin towards the mirror. Shiro cranes his neck and sees what Keith sees; the two women, previously trapped, kick out the door of the trailer. The one with the black eye twists her hands and brings it down over her knee, snapping the tie.

She rips off the tape, smacks her lips and walks over to her friend to help her out of her own bindings. Both of them stand in stark difference to the panic they had so, _so_ convincingly portrayed ten seconds ago, and Keith has never felt so truly screwed in his life.

There’s a loud rumble as the hoarde following Keith and Shiro draw close. They’re almost blinded by the amount of light that floods the truck as three cars pull up a few feet in front of them. There’s a sharp tap against the window on Keith’s side, and he looks over to see one of the women grinning.

“ _Get out_ ,” She says, sing-song voice muffled through the glass.

“Don’t leave the car,” Keith tells Shiro, still keeping him pinned against the seat. The woman repeats the order, and Keith pointedly ignores her. She gives an exaggerated pout, before stepping back and walking towards the hood of the truck, reaching for something underneath her varsity jacket. Her companion takes place behind her, standing large and looming with her arms crossed over her chest.

“Give me the gun,” Keith says out the corner of his mouth, but as soon as Shiro reaches down, there’s a loud bang and the windshield shatters as a bullet pierces the air in between them. It cushions itself in the backseat, and Shiro goes rigid.

“Can you hear me better now?” The woman happily asks, lowering her own firearm. Shiro’s stopped moving for the gun, and Keith’s about to try to subtly reach for his bag on his own but the woman clicks her teeth loudly enough to get his attention.

“Uh uh. Next bullet’s in your arm,” She says easily, voice still disconcertingly upbeat. “I’ve got good aim. Don’t test it.”

A few car doors slam shut loudly in the distance. Dark figures emerge, strongly backlit by the bright white high beams. There’s one intimidatingly large and familiar one amongst them, and Keith knows they’re truly cornered.

“I’m going to get out first,” Keith says quietly, trying not to sound like they’re shit out of luck. “Use it as a distraction.”

Slowly, Keith opens the door, raising both hands in the air.

“I’m coming out,” He calls out loudly. Keith squints at the brightness of the light as he steps out, and he can hear the shuffle of Sendak’s people in the distance as they raise their weapons.

“Good boy,” The woman croons, and Keith narrows his eyes at the way the words drip with insult. “Where’s your man?”

The other door of the truck squeaks open as Shiro steps out, and Keith starts walking towards the front of the car. He keeps his hands in the air, but the woman and Sendak still take a step back as he moves forward.

“Thanks for this,” Sendak waves a bandaged hand in Keith’s face. Keith tries to look as nonchalant as possible while replying.

“Wasn’t me,” He says slowly, trying to map out where Shiro is from the corner of his vision. “Don’t wanna steal all the credit.”

“You’re lucky boss wants you alive,” Sendak grunts, digging into his jacket. “Both of you.”

“Is that so?” Keith asks, trying to steal a sideways glance at Shiro.

Shiro’s got his hands up as well, but his jaw is set and his eyes are narrow. Keith hopes Shiro’s picked up the hint that Keith has dropped; by the expression on Shiro’s face, it looks like he has.

“Step away from each other,” Sendak commands and Keith shakes his head.

“We go together,” He says firmly, trying to not reveal any shaking in his voice. “Or not at all.”

“I said what I said, boy,” Sendak says, sounding like it takes as much effort to hide his agitation as it does for Keith to hide his fear. They’re cornered like rats and Keith’s brain is churning away, but he’s too blinded by the headlights to find a way in the moment.

“Take us together,” Keith says, shuffling closer to Shiro. He stares down the woman’s sig sauer with determination, because he’s got always got a streak of recklessness, and the impending doom is just heightening it.

“You’re getting on my last fucking nerve -” Sendak starts, but there’s a rumbling sound in the distance. The drone of an engine grows louder and louder, and something catches the eye of Sendak and the two women.

Keith chances a look over his shoulder to see a motorcycle slowly circle around the RV. It’s a familiar bright green sports bike, a lot newer than Keith’s, and it slows down to a stop in front of the RV. The motorcyclist is short, and the bike leans a significant amount when they drop their foot on the ground.

“Hey,” The woman calls out, keeping her gun trained on Keith. “This is a private show, sweetheart.”

The motorcyclist unstraps their helmet and pulls it off, revealing a girl with an extremely confused baby face.

“Oh dear,” The girl says, looking around the group. Her eyes are wide, her glasses nowhere to be seen, and her hair’s pulled back into two short pigtails. “I just wanted some directions.”

“You have three seconds to get out of here,” The woman says, and finally shifts her aim towards the front wheel of the girl’s motorcycle. But before she can say anything, there’s a loud _CRUNCH_  and Keith’s head immediately whips around.

A giant white eighteen wheeler comes off the side off the road, barrelling through the line of SUVs, sending debris flying everywhere as Sendak’s people start yelling and screaming. Sendak and the women whip around, and Keith hears the sharp crack of multiple guns going off at the same time.

He’s about to grab Shiro, but Shiro’s beat him to it; the woman with the gun turns on them and tries to shoot, but Shiro knocks Keith to the ground just in time. Keith hears an engine rev as Pidge yells something in the distance, redirecting the woman’s attention; Shiro crawls onto his knees and rocks back onto his heels, collecting Keith by the collar of his shirt and dragging him back onto his feet.

There’s a loud commotion in the distance, but Shiro manages to herd them to safety behind the bed of the truck. He pulls Keith down till he’s sitting on the ground before Keith has a chance to speak. Even with the metal behind them, Shiro’s holding Keith against his body, shielding him as he curls over him.

“Are you okay?” Shiro asks breathlessly, but Keith doesn’t get a chance to answer. There’s a loud shout followed by another crunch and both of them wince in unison.

“Where’s your gun?” Keith asks, trying to squirm out of Shiro’s hold. “Give me your gun, I gotta-”

“Stay here,” Shiro says, and there’s a familiar firmness in his voice that causes Keith to freeze. “It’s safe here, don’t move. Let them wear themselves out.”

“What?” Keith hisses, and it’s an absolutely terrible plan but Shiro’s using all his strength to keep Keith pinned down. “Shiro, let go, let me-”

“Save our bullets,” Shiro replies. “Listen to what’s happening.”

Keith doesn’t think he can hear anything over the adrenaline thundering through him, but he strains his ears anyways. It’s then that he realizes that Shiro’s right— the amount of short _pops_ littering the air reduces every time there’s a loud bang or a crunch. Keith winces at the sound, but if he’s counting correctly, it means that Sendak’s gang is losing.

“Stay,” Shiro repeats, and this time Keith’s more compliant. He loops an arm around the large forearm that bars him, part to hold onto and part to use as leverage incase the situation desperately calls to intervene. Keith looks at Shiro, and Shiro looks off to the side in concentration, listening to the commotion on the other side of the truck.

There’s another loud bang that makes the truck shake, but Shiro grips tighter onto Keith. Sendak yells on the other side of the vehicle, but there’s a loud _THUNK_ and the noise whittles down to a large groan. There’s a soft thud of a body hitting the ground, and another yell before everything goes silent.

Shiro and Keith both stay as still as possible. Keith can hear a soft crackle in the distance, like something’s on fire, and the air stinks of burnt rubber and gunpowder, with an underlying scent that’s both fresh and lurid and extremely haunting.

“All clear!” Pidge’s voice rings like a bell through the night.

“Is she with us?” Shiro looks at Keith, and Keith nods.

“Definitely,” He says. “I think we’re good to get up.”

Slowly, the two of them rise to their feet. Shiro keeps an arm around Keith and Keith clings onto it till they’re fully up. They’re slow to part, and Shiro untucks his gun from where he had shoved it discreetly into the waistband of his jeans. He holds it in front of him, pointing it to the ground.

“Just incase,” He tells Keith and Keith nods, even though a dam inside has broke and relief has started to flood him.

Slowly, they circle around the truck, Shiro raising the muzzle of his gun. Shiro tries to step in front of Keith and Keith tries to step in front of Shiro, so they compromise by walking side by side as they make their way towards the carnage.

Pidge is sitting on her motorcycle, using her glove to wipe down the visor of her helmet. She looks up at Keith and nods, and he tips his head in return. He owes her the world, but there’s time for that later.

The large white eighteen-wheeler sits happily amongst the wreckage of what had been Sendak’s fleet of cars. Keith doesn’t want to think about what’s littering the ground, but he does notice that Sendak is missing. It means that Sendak’s probably been captured and already hauled into the container of the truck.

A familiar man waves to them from the loading area of the truck, confirming Keith’s theory. Keith gives waves back to Coran, and places a hand on Shiro’s shoulder. The muscle is incredibly tense, so Keith tries to tamper down the excitement in his tone.

“It’s okay,” He tells Shiro, voice low. “It’s okay, we’re safe now.”

“Are we?” Shiro looks at Keith, and Keith nods. Shiro is hesitant, but he lowers the gun anyways as one of the windows in the cab of the truck lowers.

“Boys,” Allura leans out of the driver’s side, face glistening with sweat but grin wide. “Looks like you need a ride.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

There are a total of six people who have currently made it their mission to make sure that Shiro is safe. Three of them are in the cab of the giant white tractor trailer driving through the night, and three of them are in a secret room built near the front end of the cargo container.

Shiro only knows one of them, barely. And he’s still terrified— he’s in the secret room as well, with Hunk, Keith and Lance, and a man who’s made it his mission to hunt Shiro down.

The room looks like a wooden crate on the outside, but there are grills on the side to let in air and it’s hidden behind enough containers that whenever they stop at an inspection station, no one bothers to take a good look. Every time the truck slows down to a halt, Lance stuffs a balled up sock in Sendak’s mouth, if he doesn’t have the burlap sack over his head already. Lance has got a black eye and a nasty split lip, while Hunk’s knuckles still have dried blood caked on them. He’s wrapped his right hand with a yellow strip of cloth and has assured Shiro multiple times that a majority of the blood is not his own. But he curls his hand into a fist to work out some of the stiffness, and Shiro can clearly see the fresh blood bloom through the cloth.

The girl on the bike is named Pidge; the driver of the truck is a young woman named Allura, and the man accompanying her is her uncle, Coran. The situation they left behind didn’t leave much time for an introduction so that’s all Shiro knows. Coran had hustled Keith and Shiro into the back of the container, where Lance and Hunk had been waiting for them along with Sendak, who was bound heavily by rope and dropped like a sack onto one of the benches nailed to the wall.

Sendak had looked worse for the wear but when Shiro had been ushered into the makeshift room, he had given so wide a smile that Hunk had made a sound of disgust and covered his head with a sack again before Keith had yanked it off.

Keith had looked exhausted. He still does, and refuses to sit down. He’s made Shiro sit on the other free bench, nailed to the side opposite of where Sendak’s sitting, while he, Hunk and Lance round on Sendak. Keith _must_ be running on an empty fuel tank, but he still stands like he’s poised to kill at any moment. From the back, he cuts the most rigid and intimidating figure out of all three of them, but also the weariest. Shiros knows everyone else must be feeling the same adrenaline rush he is  he just wonders how long it'll keep Keith going.

“Who’s after us?” Keith demands, voice cracking near the end from evident exhaustion. Hunk’s got the sack in his hand, and Sendak bares his teeth at them.

“I am,” Sendak says, giving them an oily smile before he winks. “Found you.”

The truck rumbles over a pothole, and the judder that runs through the room sends a wave of nausea rolling through Shiro. There’s a sputtering light bulb hanging from the ceiling, and the dull yellow glow makes Sendak’s face even more unnerving. A deep scar that runs down his right brow, so deep that the ridges of it haven’t filled in yet with new flesh. The light catches it in a way that makes it look fresh, makes it stand out from the other bruising on his face.

They’re driving north for now, before they continue trekking east. At least that’s the game plan, according to Lance. Coran has a more secure safehouse, one that’s apparently less likely to get ambushed. He and Allura and missed steamrolling Sendak’s people when they had attacked Lance and Hunk’s hideout, but had managed to scoop the two up before heading Keith and Shiro’s way.

Shiro needs to know more about her, more about the others, but doesn’t want to push Keith into spilling in front of Sendak. The unease that he had felt after he had gotten off the phone with his father has only slightly dissipated, and he doesn’t think he needs Keith to prove anymore who’s side he’s on, not after what’s happened. Keith trusts Allura and company, and Shiro’s currently looking to him for his safety, so he supposes he trusts them as well.

“Sorry,” Lance says, as Keith digs into his back pocket. Shiro watches as he digs a dark object out, and hears the soft _shwick_ of a switch-blade opening. “My friend’s not good at articulating, so let me rephrase. We know the Galra’s after us. We want to know who’s the head honcho, because it’s clearly not you.”

“You don’t need to act like you’re living from the shadows.” Keith says, turning  the blade over in his hand idly. Sendak’s smile falters just the slightest. “It’ll save you a lot of pain and me a lot of trouble if you just give the name of your keeper.”

Like the name of an old childhood friend, the name Galra sounds familiar in a faded, worn-out way that’s not quite on the tip of Shiro’s tongue. There must be some form of recognition on his face that Sendak picks up on, because he’s back to wearing his greasy expression.

“We don’t live in the shadows,” Sendak says, looking up at Keith. He’s still got an unsettling grin on his face. “We live in a void.”

“I bet the neighbourhood there is great,” Hunk says sweetly, stepping forward and twisting the sack in his hand. “Who’s your boss?”

Sendak says nothing for a moment; instead, he looks at the three men in front of him, and drops his gaze down to look at Shiro from in between Keith and Hunk.

“Zarkon,” Sendak says finally, rolling the name out long and with intent. “He’s looking for you, Shiro. He’s not happy you keep slipping away.”

Shiro stiffens and straightens up, willing himself to not show the hard shiver that threatens to run through his body. He fails, and Sendak’s demeanor turns more gleeful. Shiro curls his fists from where they sit on top of his thighs, and Keith steps in front of him, blocking him from Sendak’s view.

“Did you say Zarkon?” Lance pipes up, and Sendak grunts in return. Lance snorts loudly, and both Hunk and Keith turn their heads to frown at him.

“What kind of name is that?” Lance asks incredulously. “I asked for the name of your boss, not of some cartoon villain.”

“You’ll respect it,” Sendak starts, but Lance abruptly cuts him off.

“Tell me the truth,” Lance says. “Tell us his name. It’s not gonna do you any good to lie.”

Lance says something else, but Shiro’s already started to tunnel in on the name. It picks at something in his brain, sounds familiar. Keith shifts his weight onto his other foot, and it leaves a sliver of space large enough for Sendak to catch the faint recognition Shiro can’t hide.

“Why would I lie?” This time, Sendak’s grin is big enough to break his face. He stares directly at Shiro, boring a hole into him. “Every dog must know who their master is.”

Keith takes a step forward, but Hunk stops him with a hand against his chest. The truck rocks gently, and Sendak doesn’t break his gaze. There’s something wicked and knowing about the way he looks that invokes an anger in Shiro that feels primal and he straightens up further, sticking his chin out just the slightest. It makes Sendak laugh as the truck jostles again, and just from the outline of his back, Keith looks like he’s about to pummel Sendak.

“Zarkon,” Sendak repeats, just as the anger in Shiro is joined by an unplaced sense of dread. “Yeah, you look like you remember.”

“I don’t–” Shiro starts, but stops.

It’ll be a lie, a lie that he can’t see through because suddenly there’s a murky memory floating in front of him, just barely out of reach. It’s a man, large and burly and vicious, staring down at Shiro like he’s on a table to be examined. Shiro can’t place where, can’t place when, can’t place what’s happening. His chest starts to tighten and on reflex, he takes a loud and telling inhale, enough to make Sendak snicker.

“Shiro?” It’s Keith’s voice, probably, and for a flashing moment it sounds familiar. Familiar, not in the way that Shiro’s learned over the past few days, but familiar in a way that speaks to years shared in between them. He holds onto that, the sound of Keith saying his name, because he can feel something dark starting to tug at him and pull him down, calling his name in a harsh and sinister voice.

The truck rocks again and Shiro’s head thuds gently against the wall. It feels like he’s been hit over the head with a brick though and he makes a wounded sound as the bile rises in his throat. Immediately, he finds Keith crouching in front of Shiro, turning his back on Sendak. Sendak’s face drifts out of focus, and Shiro sees two Keiths in front of him, then a translucent three. He tries to reach forward and feel out the real one with his hand and his fingers land on a jaw, but Shiro’s vision is still swimming as Keith’s eyes go wide.

“Shiro, what’s happening?” Keith asks, voice sounding steadily further away. “Shiro, talk to me, talk to me–”

Shiro feels himself tilting forward as a wave of nausea hits him like a hammer. His head drops between his shoulders; Shiro tries to hold onto Keith but his hand starts to slip. Keith immediately shoots up one of his own to hold onto Shiro but the truck goes over another pothole and suddenly, Shiro’s strapped down to a table with a large bright purple halo of light hovering above him.

Three figures loom over him in bright white hazmat suits, and a fourth, slimmer one in a lab coat. There’s a buzzing of a table saw and the anesthetic has not been administered properly because Shiro can’t move but he can still feel, still feel, _still feel_ —

Keith’s calling his name in the distance, and Shiro clutches on as his brain drums a steady beat against the inside of his skull. He can feel the corners of his eyes start to grow hot and wet and he tries to grab whatever’s in front of him to hold on. He gets drawn into a tight embrace, and he buries his face in the crook of Keith’s – _Keith_? – neck as his memory starts to break down again. He can feel himself crumbling with it, can hear Keith repeatedly tell Shiro that he’s here, that he’s safe, that Keith’s got him.

“Oh, he definitely remembers,” Sendak says in the distance, and Shiro thinks he hears Hunk give a “ _Shut the fuck up"_  before there’s a muffled _thwack_.

Shiro thinks he says something to Keith— maybe his name, maybe something else. But before he can register anything, his vision fizzles out to black.

 

* * *

 

 

Coran’s safehouse is a small farm sitting on the outskirts of a large suburb that they reach early in the evening. It’s got a dilapidated silo and a crumbling barn, but the empty paddocks are well maintained and the farm house looks like it has a fresh coat of whitewash. There’s a Holstein farm on one side and dry, empty land on the other, stretching out for a couple of miles before it bleeds into the suburbs.

Shiro doesn’t properly come to till they’re pulling up the long dirt driveway of the farm. Vaguely, he remembers Allura had parked in an unlit pullout so that Keith could haul Shiro out of the cargo container. They had switched places with Coran and Pidge and a mix of stress and sheer exhaustion had taken over Shiro. He had fallen dead asleep, sandwiched between Keith and Allura, and still feel remnants of the nausea when he wakes up. Keith’s apparently stayed up the entire ride, because Allura chides him for not taking a break as they step down from the cab of the truck.

“You can’t keep going like this,” Shiro hears Allura telling Keith as Shiro hops out of the cab. Keith says nothing; he slams the door of the passenger side shut after Shiro’s fully out and goes around the truck to the back. Shiro tries to follow him, but a firm hand on his elbow stops him.

“It’s good to see you alive,” Allura says with a small smile. “And relatively healthy.”

She’s standing close enough that Shiro can get a proper look at her face. Her eyes are an icy blue, and she has twin tattoos, a dull pink boomerang on each cheekbone. Her features are strikingly symmetrical, her hair is pulled back in a bright white bun, and Shiro has no recollection of ever meeting her in his life before this. Still, he tries to offer a smile in return.

“You don’t remember me, huh?” Allura asks, and there’s still kindness in her voice. “Do you remember any of us?”

“No,” Shiro answers truthfully, almost. He doesn’t want to reveal the brief familiarity he felt in the truck he doesn’t want to put stock in something that was fleeting, something that may not happen again, something that might have just been the adrenaline.

“It’s good that Keith found you,” Allura begins, but she’s interrupted by the loud clicking of the cargo gate being opened.

There’s a loud thud and Shiro looks over to see Sendak rolled out onto the dirt. Lance and Hunk bend down to haul him up, and Shiro can hear him threatening them in as colourful a manner as possible. Keith stands watch, arms crossed as he stares, and the setting sun drops down on him in a way that makes the bags under his eyes look deeper.

“Let’s go in,” Allura says, as Coran and Pidge jump down from the container. She tugs on Shiro’s arm and leads him towards the farmhouse, and when they’ve got a decent distance between them and the others, Allura leans in to whisper to Shiro.

“Keith needs to rest, but he’s probably going to want to interrogate Sendak,” She says. “Distract him, okay?”

“How?” Shiro frowns, and Allura’s smile slips a little.

“Right,” She says. “I’ll tell him to tend to you. I think that’ll be the only thing that’ll convince him not to join us.”

Before Shiro can ask anything further, before he can tell Allura that he doesn’t blame Keith because he wants to interrogate Sendak too, the others catch up to them. Allura lets go of him and goes to unlock the door, and Keith takes her place beside Shiro almost immediately.

“Are you feeling better?” Keith asks him, and Shiro nods. He sneaks a look at Keith out of the corner of his eye, and sees Keith looking back.

The house is a little outdated with its decor, but as neat on the inside as it is on the outside. The walls are a garish fuschia with pictures and newspaper clippings pasted all over them, filled with people who look similar to Coran, standing beside large cows with big ribbons.

“Bring Sendak here,” Allura calls out over her shoulder, and Keith pulls Shiro to the side.

Hunk and Lance haul Sendak forward, the man still spitting muffled insults through a sock unceremoniously stuffed in his mouth. He’s stopped physically resisting, but there’s something in the back of Shiro’s mind telling him that that doesn’t necessarily bode well. Allura swings open a door leading to a set of stairs, and Hunk and Lance drag Sendak down. Pidge follows close behind, cracking her knuckles and giving a nod in Shiro’s direction, and Coran pushes past to say something low to Allura.

She presses her mouth in a  thin line before nodding and whispering back, before descending down the stairs. Keith tries to make a move towards the door as well, but Coran slams it shut before Keith can reach it, standing in front of the knob.

“Food?” Coran asks cheerfully, blocking Keith as he tries to side step him. “Maybe some bacon and eggs? Not exactly dinner foods, but I’m sure we can make an exception.”

“Let me in,” Keith insists and Corna shakes his head.

“I think there are more important things to take care of,” Coran says. A muted laugh floats out from behind the door; it’s Sendak’s and it’s shut up by a slightly louder cracking sound. “For example.”

Coran tilts a square chin towards Shiro, and Keith looks like he’s struggling between Shiro and the door. He looks like he’s struggling to stay upright in general at this point, and Shiro can tell Keith probably needs the rest more than Shiro does.

“You look like you need a break,” Shiro says, and Keith’s shoulders finally droop.

“So do you,” Keith says, but offers no further protest. He allows Coran to lead them to the kitchen, where they’re sat at a linoleum dining table. Keith groans as he sits down, and Shiro makes a sound in agreement as he takes place on the chair beside Keith. It feels like his body’s made out of cardboard, stiff and aching and rough. He feels the throb of the bruise on his cheekbone and the skin where his prosthetic joins his arm is sore. Coran brings them both a glass of cold water, and the taste of it is so good that it almost brings tears to Shiro’s eyes.

“Where are you hurting?” Keith scoots his chair forward, so that he’s closer to Shiro. “Turn your head.”

Shiro obeys, and he can see Keith’s hand twitch when he shows Keith the bruise from the butt of the gun. He thinks Keith wants to touch, is ready to tell him that he can, but there’s a loud clang as Coran yanks a pan out unceremoniously from a cupboard and it startles the two of them. Something catches the corner of Shiro’s eye— there’s a mottled purple mark on Keith’s forearm where it joins the wrist.

“Keith,” Shiro starts, immediately turning on Keith. Keith leans back, but Shiro grabs his wrist as gently as he can to hold the arm up to the light. “Shit, when did this happen?”

“Dunno,” Keith shrugs, and turns his arm in Shiro’s hand to look at the bruise. He holds it up and squints, then gives a tired grin. “Matches yours though.”

“You need ice,” Shiro starts, letting go of Keith and pushing his chair back, but Keith puts a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s not broken,” Keith says. “I’ll take care of it later. It doesn’t hurt that bad either.”

It looks like it does, but Keith presses down on Shiro’s shoulder. Shiro gets the hint and leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his shoulder. Keith mirrors him with a yawn, settling into the worn cushion of the wooden dining chair. Shiro’s about to speak again, but he can see Keith’s eyes drooping, and he decides to leave it. By the time Coran’s setting down plates in front of them, Keith’s head is tilted forward and he’s snoring gently. He’s still got a slight furrow in his brow, and Shiro knows that he’ll probably wake at the slightest sound, so he picks up his fork and knife as delicately as he can.

“How are you feeling?” Coran asks, pulling up a seat on the other side of Shiro. His voice is quiet, almost a whisper, and Shiro replies in equal volume.

“Better,” He says, and Coran gives him a kind smile. “Do I know you from before the accident too?”

“You knew all of us,” Coran says gently, slicing a piece of peameal bacon. He forks it into his mouth, and looks thoughtfully down at his plate. “You _know_ all of us.”

“How?” Shiro asks, careful not to raise his voice. Keith’s breathing is still low and steady, and his head tilts further down. “I keep trying to look back and find the gaps where you guys would fit, but I can’t find anything.”

And it’s true. In the moments that adrenaline hasn’t been ripping through his system, Shiro’s tried to piece together what he knows about his life. It had started from the moment that his father had told him that he knew Keith, that Keith was someone to trust, someone Shiro knew from before the accident, even though Shiro had no prior recollection of him. Shiro’s been trying to retrace the tracks of his memory to find where exactly Keith had fallen off. He’s scratched the surface of it but barely, maybe. One moment of familiarity in the truck could have easily been something else. Shiro doesn’t know how he’s going to remember four other people on top of this.

“That’s okay,” Coran says. “I think right now what we want to do is keep you safe. There are dangerous people out after you.”

“You guys are doing a lot for someone who doesn’t know you,” Shiro points out, and Coran lets out a small chuckle.

“We care for you,” He says, and he looks over at Keith. “Some in ways we can’t fully explain. But we also have other stakes in the game.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Coran leans forward, whispering so quietly that Shiro almost misses it. “You’re not the only one who we’ve been looking for.”

“What?” Shiro frowns, and Coran takes one more look at Keith. Keith’s still fast asleep, but Coran looks uncertain.

“It’s their stories to tell. But,” He pauses, closes his eyes, and sighs. “Allura’s father had gone missing and was found dead. Pidge’s brother has gone missing, as has her father. All of them went missing from where you were coming from.”

“Where I came from?” Shiro frowns. “All these people went missing from Encino?”

Coran puts his fork down, and turns to Shiro.

“Keith told us you were out there for a funeral,” Coran says. “Whose funeral?”

“Uh,” Shiro searches his brain for a moment. He spent two weeks in California specifically for this funeral, and for some odd reason, he’s having the hardest time recalling which family member it was for. He was distant, Shiro remembers that.  “A cousin of an in-law. Regris.”

Coran’s face slips for a moment, but the moment is fleeting. He looks more serious now, and Shiro tries to remember why he drove all the way to the west coast for someone who’s not even blood related to him.

“I’m going to ask you something,” Coran says slowly. “And you don’t have to answer. “If it makes you feel strange, you _definitely_ don’t have to answer.”

“Okay,” Shiro says tentatively, and Coran looks like he’s thinking over his words very carefully before he speaks.

“Tell me about your life, Shiro,” Coran says. “Tell me what you can remember.”

 

* * *

 

 

By the time Hunk, Lance, Allura and Pidge reemerge. Shiro feels like he’s lost in the woods. Talking to Coran has been an exercise in falling apart and losing the pieces.

Shiro’s recounted his life to Coran. Growing up in a city in the East Coast, before moving out to the suburbs as a teen. Being the captain of the school’s rugby team, living a nondescript life until taking a communications major in university and moving further out east. He’s got a couple of friends, tertiary ones from work, but he lives a pretty solitary and peaceful life. It’s an uneventful one, at any rate.

But the memory of it is fragile, and the more Shiro tells Coran about his small apartment in Maine and how it didn’t take much for him to leave it, pack his truck, and head west, the more Shiro realizes that his memories have a shape he cannot recognize. Coran doesn’t prod Shiro about his family; he asks him instead about his neighbours, about the city he lives, about his favourite coffee shop. Shiro’s neighbors are quiet, Lewiston is Lewiston, and Shiro didn’t start drinking coffee till he took this trip.  Shiro tells Coran that he has been living there for five years and it gets a little boring, and it feels like he’s reciting from a script.

It’s a feeling that he tucks away though, one that he doesn’t make known to Coran because he _still_ has no form of recognition for anyone in the house. All he has is one small strand of familiarity with Keith, one that could easily just be the result of the turmoil from the last few days.

Keith sleeps through a majority of the talk, occasionally making a sound but not waking till Lance swings open the door to the basement. The bang of the door against the opposite drywall startles Keith awake, and he leaps to his feet, ready to fight.

“At ease, soldier,” Lance says as he enters the kitchen, making a beeline towards the now-cold plate of bacon. Keith grunts in return, and Pidge and Hunk pop in as well.

“Sendak says that we have three days till Zarkon’s men find us again,” Pidge tells Keith, sidestepping him so that she can drop down on the chair he had been sleeping on.

“Which probably means a day and half,” Hunk says from where he’s turning on the tap in the kitchen sink. The water sluicing off his hands is a dark iron colour, and Shiro’s impressed with how little sound made it out of the basement once he was away from the door. “We need to figure out what our next step is.”

“We have to get more information from Sendak,” Allura says, entering the kitchen. She looks as composed as she had been before, but Shiro can see the angry red marks against her knuckles that weren’t there before. “He likes to talk, but none of it’s useful.”

There’s a firm set to her line, and Shiro remembers Coran telling him about her missing father. There’s something stony behind Pidge’s eyes as well, and she doesn’t quite make eye contact with Shiro as she pulls Keith’s full plate towards herself and starts picking at it.

“What’d he say?” Keith asks, and no one misses the way Allura’s eyes flit to Shiro before she looks at Keith. “Did he say who this Zarkon is?”

Allura’s face undergoes a visible change; it hardens, and she turns away to go get food. Coran has his fingers folded in front of them, staring at them in deep thought, and an uncomfortable silence falls over the kitchen. Shiro watches as Lance silently spoons out food for her on a plate, but doesn’t quite look at her as she thanks him for it.

“Who’s the Galra?” Shiro speaks up, and this time, Allura does reply.

“Their roots run deep and far,” She says. “They’re a cult that hides under the guise of being a scientific brotherhood. They’re the ones that caused your accident.”

There’s an odd uptick when she says _accident_ , an odd look on Allura’s face in general. Lance clears his throat from the sink, and addresses the room at large.

“We’re safe for the night, if anything,” He says. “Sendak’s tied up, and no one’s tracking anyone to here. Not for a while at least.”

“Yeah,” Hunk adds on. “As much as I’d love to do the whole show and tell right now, I think it’s not going to be worth shit if all of us are dead tired. I think we should hit the hay for now.”

Keith looks like he wants to protest and Shiro’s not stupid. He knows that the room’s hiding something from them, or maybe just from Shiro. His reaction to Sendak in the truck had been such a hard tailspin that he’s sure that everyone’s going to walk on eggshells around him. And Keith, for as long as he’s sticking around Shiro.

“I’m good for that,” Shiro says. He gets up, and Keith moves towards him instantly but he holds up a hand. “You finish eating. Just tell me where I can crash. And maybe shower.”

He figures if he’s gone, the team will tell Keith what Sendak’s said. And he’s hoping that Keith will relay the information.

He's hoping.

 

* * *

 

 

There’s a limited amount of rooms in the farmhouse, so it comes as little surprise to Shiro when he steps out of the shower in his appointed room and sees Keith sitting on the twin bed across from Shiro’s. There’s a pile of clothes folded neatly on top of Shiro’s empty bed, and Keith looks up when Shiro comes out of the bathroom.

“Fresh clothes,” He says, gesturing to the pile. Shiro picks up a dark grey shirt and soft sweatpants; they smell old, but clean, and Keith’s holding a similar shirt on his lap. His hair is wet, he’s in a pair of dark red boxers,  and even though he’s in the same shirt as before he doesn’t smell like gasoline and caked sweat, so Shiro’s guessing Keith’s washed up as well.

Keith stands up and faces away from Shiro, presumably to give him some privacy. Shiro watches as Keith changes his shirt in silence. The room’s apparently the second largest in the house but it’s still relatively small, enough for Shiro to watch the muscles of Keith’s back flex as he strips. He watches while he can, watches while Keith’s not looking, half lost in thought as he drops his own towel to tug on the fresh clothes.

Keith’s lean, built, but smaller than Shiro with a large white scar knitted large down the crook of his right shoulder. There’s a pull to Keith that feels ingrained in him, that Shiro can’t explain. Despite everything that’s happened, the initial low stir he felt in his gut when he picked up a hitchhiker has yet to abate. He feels like a moth drawn to a dim light bulb, unable to articulate why he can’t just write this off as a purely physical pull.

It could be because Shiro’s been thrown into something new, something terrifying. His world’s been thrown onto its side and he’s still trying to wrap his head around the thought that he’s being stalked down like prey. It’s been only days since they’ve met— again, Shiro tells himself, because he’s slowly coming to terms with the fact that there might be a part of his life that he’s left behind without knowing, a part that Keith had belonged to.

And Keith’s saved his life without a second thought, more than once. It’s clear that Keith’s trying to form a protective cocoon over Shiro, and it could very well be elevating the initial draw Shiro felt when he first pulled over to the side of the road. All signs point to Shiro not having met Keith just three days ago. Shiro accepts that he’s currently surrounded by people he’s supposed to know. He’s finding small, pinprick holes in his memory, but none of them are big enough to be filled by anyone in this house.

Except for Keith.

Keith— there’s something different about Keith that makes Shiro’s feelings seem like they’re operating on muscle memory. He has no idea how to find out what exactly they are, what exactly they were, and Shiro doesn’t know if it’s something Keith would be amenable to. It’s a game of survival right now, and Shiro doesn’t think poking around and seeing if the past version of him had a crush on Keith is the smartest move to make.

“You okay?” Keith asks, and Shiro blinks out of his reverie. He had been so lost in thought that he didn’t even notice Keith turning around.

“Yeah, uh,” Shiro trails off, but it’s better than tripping over his own words. Belatedly, he remembers to slide on his own shirt. “Just, everything’s still a lot to absorb.”

“I don’t blame you,” Keith says gently, watching as Shiro sits down on the edge of his bed. “But how are you feeling?”

“Still unsure,” Shiro says honestly, and shifts his gaze to where Keith’s looking down at him. He gives Keith a searching look, and Keith waits patiently. “And I still can’t remember anything.”

Something indiscernible flits across Keith’s face and he runs his fingers through his bangs, brushing them off his face.

“I know it’s hard to feel safe,” Keith says, the bluntness of the statement surprising Shiro slightly. “And I know finding out someone’s after you is hard to take in. As I said, I don’t blame you.”

Shiro sits in silence, and Keith folds his clothes into a neat pile and puts it on the nightstand between their beds. He opens one of the drawers, and Shiro doesn’t miss the glint of the black metal Keith withdraws and slides under his pillow.

“I don’t know how to say it enough,” Keith continues, pulling back the sheets for his bed. He sits down on the mattress with a heavy thunk, bouncing up a little. Shiro watches the movement with focus, and Keith levels him with a determined look. “I feel like maybe I can’t. But know that whatever comes for you has to get through me first.”

Keith keeps telling him this. Assuring Shiro of it, hammering the point home repeatedly. Acting on it. Shiro thinks that’s a large part of what’s pulling him in, but he doesn’t think he can do anything till he finds out what the true nature of their old relationship was.

“Thank you,” Shiro says simply and quietly. He doesn’t know what else to say, but those words work-- Keith’s face softens by a fraction at first, and then completely. Before Keith reaches over to turn off the lamp, he gives Shiro a gentle smile. The room goes dark before Shiro can respond, and he hears the rustling of Keith settling into the bed.

“It’s going to be okay,” Keith says, more into the dark than to Shiro. “We’ll be okay.”

Shiro wants to ask what the team told Keith. He wants to know more about the Galra, more about Sendak. More about the man whose name sent him swirling down the drain. But Keith needs the rest; his voice is frayed around the edges, like his chest is too exhausted to breathe properly. Shiro didn’t miss the tremor in his hand when he had pulled the string of his lap, isn’t surprised when it takes less than fifteen minutes to hear the shallow breathing of Keith sleeping.

He waits another ten minutes after that, and sits up slowly in his bed. The room is almost entirely dark, with only a faint wash of moonlight making it through the thick curtains.  Shiro watches the slow and steady rise and fall of Keith’s chest, counting to thirty in his head before he slides his legs over.

As softly as he can, Shiro slips out of bed, slips out of the room, and quietly makes his way to the basement where Sendak’s being held


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special shout out to the love of my life, [otasucc](http://otasucc.tumblr.com) who sent me a giant bag of chocolate almonds and a box of treats for my dog, the rest of this fic is dedicated to you you glorious bith  
> also I'd like to thank [spifty](http://spiftynifty.tumblr.com/) for helping me with editing this chapter as I was too stupid to do so, thanks babe!!

Keith is eighteen and sick of riding on a glorified dirt bike. He’s bought a new motorcycle; it’s a sleek red sports bike that’s a little old but fully functional. And he’s tearing down a dirt road with his best friend on the back. He’s egging Keith on, telling him that there’s no one here, telling him that they can be a little reckless. The two of them are barrelling towards a shack in the middle of nowhere that’s attached to a familiar house that had been gutted out by a fire. Keith doesn’t know what he’s trying to accomplish by taking Shiro there, but he’s determined.

By the time they make it onto the tin roof, Keith’s twenty and a little older, a little more weathered in the way that men like him and Shiro are. Keith subtly shifts closer to Shiro till their thighs are touching. Shiro bumps his shoulder against Keith’s and asks who else has been lucky enough to be brought here. Keith tries to answer, but his mind’s a hundred miles away and his voice even further. The air around them smells like an old wet towel that’s never dried, and it’s slowly growing stifling.

Shiro keeps talking as the sun sets over the horizon and Keith doesn’t have to listen to him to know what he’s saying. He knows what the words are, knows what happens next because he’s lived it once in real life and a thousand times in his dreams.

But when Shiro turns to Keith and leans in in a way that Keith’s ached for in the past year, Keith sees the knitted skin of a scar that doesn’t belong to the Shiro from this memory. His hair is still black but his eyes start to sink in, start to look more tired, start to darken under the deep orange light of the setting sun.

“Shiro?” Keith asks quietly, and Shiro tilts his head.

“Yeah?” He replies, stopping just a breath away from Keith’s face. “What is it?”

It’s the first time Keith’s disrupted this dream in a while. A slow rumbling builds in the distance, and he tries to lean in to follow through on what Shiro was offering. Shiro lurches back, just as something yells behind them. Keith whips his head around to look and feels a sudden heavy weight as Shiro drops down into Keith’s arms. He tries to steady Shiro by his forearms, but Shiro shudders. The right sleeve of his uniform starts to soak through and suddenly, the cloth Keith’s grasping has nothing in it. He squeezes and dark black liquid seeps through his fingers, causing the panic in his heart to ratchet up.

“Shiro-” This time there’s desperation in his voice but Shiro’s falling into his arms like an anvil and Keith can’t hold him up.

Keith doesn’t let go. His arms strain with the burn as the rumbling grows and a high frequency buzz starts to sink into his ear drums. It’s sharp and Shiro’s getting heavier but Keith’s holding on, Keith’s not going to let go, Keith’s not going to—

A muffled crash sends Keith shooting up in his bed, his heart pounding in his chest as the buzz from his dream still rings in his ears. There’s another muffled noise, this time a _BANG_ , and it’s followed by yelling. Keith leaps onto his feet and grabs the pistol he had slipped under his pillow earlier. He turns to wake Shiro but- Shiro’s gone.

Keith frantically looks around the room and realizes that Shiro’s nowhere to be found. The door to their room is cracked slightly open even though Keith had closed it before bed, and the yellow hallway light seeps into the room. Keith swears and launches towards the door, swinging it open hard enough that it lets out a loud bang when it hits the wall. He sees Pidge and Allura step out of their room, Pidge with a baseball bat and Allura with something long and glinting in her hand. There’s another loud noise from the basement, followed by the unmistakable sound of a guttural laugh.

Keith coils like a snake and without thinking, starts to hurtle down the stairs. Allura calls out after him, but Keith ignores it in favour of storming straight towards the basement. He throws open the door of the basement and the door hits the opposing drywall hard enough to crack it. Keith can barely register the others rushing down behind him; he’s got no time to pay attention to the hard bruise his heart’s beating against his chest either.

“ _KILL ME_ ,” Sendak roars as Keith takes the stairs into the basement three steps at a time. “ _KILL ME YOU USELESS SON OF A BITCH, IT’S GONNA DO YOU NO GOOD ANYWAYS_ — _”_

This time, there’s the sound of glass breaking and Keith sprints down the hallway of the half-finished basement. There’s a door at the end of the hall that’s been closed shut; when Keith reaches it and twists it the doorknob, he finds it locked and rattles hard. Without second thought, Keith rocks back onto his feet before raising a leg and knocking it open with a kick hard enough to kill the knob. Wood splinters around Keith as he bursts into the room with a “ _Shiro!_ ” that rattles through the basement.

Though the man’s tied down, Keith’s heart still drops when he sees Sendak strain against his leather straps, eyes wide as he screeches again at Shiro, who’s standing at the foot of his bed, shoulders shaking and fist clenched. The dull light of the basement room highlights the vein bulging in the corner of Sendak’s head and the slick sheen that covers his skin. Sendak catches sight of Keith and bares his yellow teeth at him.

“Shiro, are you okay?” Keith asks as the approaching footsteps of the rest of the house grows nearer. He steps towards Shiro, but Shiro flinches back like a guarded animal and the pit of Keith’s stomach falls out. There’s shattered glass and a broken clock scattered around the floor, and Keith can see a dent in the wall right above the bedside table.

“Maybe he’ll kill me for you,” Sendak’s voice curdles around the words like milk, his tone making Keith incredibly nauseous. “He’s already got a gun. Maybe he’ll be sweet on you and put you out of your misery too.”

Keith moves to shut Sendak up, but feels a strong hand wrap around his elbow and stop him. Sendak laughs again and the sound grates against Keith’s ear drums as he turns around. Shiro’s staring back at him, and his expression is downright _furious_.

“Keith,” Shiro says in a voice so even and low that Keith knows it’s got rage simmering underneath it. “Have you been lying to me?”

“What—” Keith does a double take, blinking at Shiro. “Shiro, what?”

“He told me you’ve been hiding a lot from me,” Shiro’s grip on Keith’s arm grows tighter, but Keith makes no effort to twist out of it. Panic floods his system rapidly as Shiro continues to speak. “Says you’ve been holding out on the truth.”

“You’re going to listen to him-” Keith starts, but the look Shiro gives him causes him to snap his mouth shut. Keith looks over his shoulder at Sendak and instantly regrets it.

“Tell him how long you’ve been gone for, boy,” Sendak says, just as Hunk and Lance join Allura and PIdge at the door. The four of them won’t move past the frame, but they’re tense and ready to strike at a moment’s notice. Keith looks back and tries to give them a warning with his eyes to stay back as Shiro levels him with a stormy expression.

“A year,” Shiro’s voice is gravelly and rough as he speaks. “He said I’ve been gone for over a year, Keith. That I’ve been _missing_.”

Shiro’s voice cracks over the words with so much evident hurt and anger that Keith can’t hide from it. His face drops and he tries to speak, but a lump’s started to form in his throat and is catching the words before they make their way out. He gulps and tries to swallow it down, and Shiro’s face darkens with every passing second.

“Shiro,” it comes out weak, and Shiro drops his arm like it burns. The act of it stings.

“So you lied to me before,” Shiro accuses, stepping back from Keith. “Because there was no accident. I’ve just been missing.”

“I didn’t want to freak you out,” Keith knows the truth i s written all over his face, but also knows that Shiro can’t read him anymore. That Shiro doesn’t remember him anymore. “I can’t just spring something like that on you.”

“ _This_ is better?” Shiro’s voice tilts up in volume, loud but not yelling. “Finding out from _him_ was better?”

“He’s a known liar,” Hunk pipes up from the doorway, but Shiro cuts him off abruptly.

“He knows things about me too,” Shiro jabs a finger at Sendak, who’s now started to relax under his restraints. “Things he shouldn’t know if I’ve never seen him before.”

“Like the scar over his middle right rib,” Sendak supplies helpfully. “And the year he spent imprisoned.”

A wave of shock cracks against Keith like a bat at the words. Everything surrounding Shiro’s disappearance had been strange and Keith had known in the darkest pits that whatever had kept Shiro away from him would not have been pleasant but—imprisonment. Before he can help it, Keith’s brain starts painting a murky picture of what may have led to Shiro losing an arm and gaining his scars. Shiro looks like his hackles are raised and Keith can’t blame him at all. He doesn’t know what he can say to make _any_ of this even the slightest bit better.

“I didn’t know,” Keith finally says. Shiro steps back when Keith tries to take a step towards him and Keith drops the hand that he was reaching out with. Sendak barks out a laugh.

“ _I didn’t know_ ,” Sendak sing-songs, and Keith’s anger causes his fingers to twitch. Shiro catches the motion, eyes widening, and Keith belatedly remembers what he’s still holding onto. Immediately, Keith clicks the safety back on and crouches down, cautiously placing the gun down on the ground. He raises his hands and slowly rises up to his feet again, gently kicking the gun away. It doesn’t slide far, but Shiro keeps his eyes pinned to it.

“Shiro, I only want to keep you safe,” Keith softly pleades, desperate to have Shiro not look like he’s being hunted. “I know it’s hard, but there are people out to hurt you that-”

“People like me,” Sendak supplies, and Keith tries his best to ignore him. “And the people who say they’re protecting him are lying to him. That’s a lot of shitty luck.”

“Shiro, you have to trust me,” Keith speaks over Sendak, trying to drown him out. “Your father-”

“My _dead_ father!” This time Shiro _does_ shout, and Keith winces. “Yeah, he told me that too.”

Keith's arrested to the spot. His blood runs frigid and his heart drops straight through the ground. The true nature of Shiro’s father had been the one lie that Keith had absolutely hated himself for telling Shiro, and the one lie that that he didn’t know how he’d approach if Shiro didn’t get his memories back. It was one he had upheld in his desperation to keep Shiro safe. Keith can still see his friends over Shiro’s shoulder, and each of them look as crestfallen as Keith feels.

“Sad that I could poke more of his memory than you could?” Sendak snickers, then scoffs. Keith’s approaching a breaking point fast, between the way Shiro’s looking at him and the way Sendak’s voice scrapes against his bones.  “Whatever you two have ain’t _shit_ compared to what I can do.”

“Shut _up_!” Keith finally snaps at Sendak, whipping around and  lunging at him. Shiro grabs Keith by the collar almost instantly, but Keith tries to pull and tries to reach Sendak anyways. Lance and Pidge rush into the room and help Shiro yank him back, but Pidge pries Shiro’s hands off of him. All the while, Sendak looks on gleefully.

“You want to protect him from the truth when you don’t even know all of it?” Sendak spits out in Keith’s direction. “When you keep lying to him?”

“Fuck you,” Keith bites out, and tries to break past his friends’ hold. They tighten their grip, but he still tries to wrestle out of it. “I’ve only done what I’ve done to protect him. You don’t know who he was.”

“I know what he became,” Sendak laughs again. “And I definitely know where he’s been. I’ve told him a little about his year long vacation. It’s up to _him_ now what he wants you to know and what he doesn’t.”

Lance manages to get a good hold on Keith and yank him back completely, and there’s silence as Keith stumbles back. He levels Sendak with as much as hate as possible but Sendak looks like he’s revelling in the way that Keith’s suffering tastes. Keith knows he can push past his friends if he really wants to and physically shut Sendak up, but knows it’ll make him look even worse in Shiro’s eyes. He thinks about following through on that urge, but Shiro’s hand lands on his shoulder. There’s no familiarity in the contact; Shiro uses it to turn Keith around to face him.

“Are you going to start telling me the truth, Keith?” Shiro asks bluntly, the question coming down like a gavel. Keith’s strikingly lost on this entire situation; he had been ready to bring Shiro back, had been ready to deal with whatever terror had nested within Shiro the way that people like them dealt with it. He hadn’t been prepared for— for this. For any of this.

He can’t look unsure under Sendak’s eye, can’t pay attention to the way Allura and Hunk look at him from the doorway. Keith can’t hide some truths from Shiro anymore either, because whatever string of trust that Shiro’s allowed them to tie between them is fragile and on the verge of snapping.

“Yeah,” Keith says quietly, taking a deep breath so none of his rage towards Sendak comes out in his voice. It does well to hide any sound of defeat too. “Yeah, I will.”

 

* * *

  


It’s a conversation Keith has known for a while that he has to have.

And in the time between him finding Shiro and now, he still hasn’t found a good way to approach it. He feels like he’s fucked up in a big way as Shiro sits across from him at the dining table. Allura and Lance had stayed back in the basement to put Sendak to sleep again, this time in a way that would make sure he wouldn’t wake for at least a few hours. Everyone else had retreated to their rooms. Keith counts this privacy as a small blessing because he’s just barely able to stop his face from crumpling under the hurt look that Shiro’s giving him.

Keith _knows_ he should have told Shiro some of this earlier. He _knows_ he should have told Shiro that there had been no accident. Keith’s told himself time and again since he had found Shiro that he’s going to tell Shiro sooner rather than later. But later has come a lot faster than Keith anticipated, and he doesn’t know what he can say to not have Shiro look at him like that. So he tries to start with the truth.

“You’ve been missing for a year and a half. You were officially declared killed in action one year ago,” Keith tells Shiro as evenly as possible. “There was no accident.”

It’s not surprising that Shiro has nothing to say to this. He looks like he’s still trying to process the information, and Keith waits for him patiently, trying not to let on how much his palms sweat from nervousness.

“Killed in action?” Shiro repeats slowly. “I was military?”

“Both of us are,” Keith nods, then corrects himself. “Were. Everyone in this house was. You were a pilot. Fighter class at first, but you were training to be a test pilot.”

And Shiro had been on the fast path to becoming one as well. It’s a memory from another life now, but Keith remembers looking at pamphlets, wondering if he should join the program as well. Both of them had bigger dreams, dreams that are painfully distant now.

“You and two other men were sent out as support for a peacekeeping mission,” Keith continues. “But your plane had gone missing when you entered hostile air space. They declared you dead six months later when they found the wreckage. Said you’d been shot down.

“I stayed-” Keith cuts himself off there.  He’s not sure if Shiro needs to hear that Keith had tried to power through his sadness at the Garrison without leave, and had only just barely hung on. “A few weeks after, I had been doing paperwork for an admiral and I had found a memo. It was from the same day, and it referred to you in the present tense. It said something about resending a health report.”

Keith thought it had been a mistake. It had been just a week after Shiro’s official funeral, and he thought that his mourning had been making him see things. Keith still held onto the memo, but he had tucked it into a bedside drawer, away from his grief so that it couldn’t cling onto it. He had more or less compartmentalized and forgotten it until one night a couple of weeks later, when he had caught Pidge sneaking into Admiral Sanda’s office.

Keith didn’t know who it was at first, and had been completely prepared to subdue the intruder when he opened the door. But he had stopped dead in his tracks when he flicked on the light and had seen it was the youngest Holt family member, hunched over Sanda’s computer with a frenzied look in her eye. She had pulled up an encrypted file with medical reports on Matthew and Samuel Holt. All of them were stamped within the past three months.

“Her brother and father had been with you,” Keith says, still recalling how jarring it was to see those reports. “She told me she had proof that the plane hadn’t crashed.”

Keith had thought he was dreaming for a second, or that Pidge had taken the loss a lot harder than he had. After all, she was so much younger, and had lost twice the amount of people. Keith had kept his distance from Katie and Colleen Holt since the official funerals, too nervous to try and cope with their grief together.

But Pidge had sworn up and down that she was telling the truth and had told Keith that she had been collecting evidence for a while. She told Keith that she broke into Sanda’s office looking for a specific set of coordinates for a warehouse she had overheard the Admiral talking about in a restricted hallway, way past curfew.

Keith didn’t know whether to believe her or not, but Pidge had extracted the location of three different warehouses from a file on Sanda’s computer,  none of which were officially listed with the Garrison. He found himself agreeing to take Pidge to the locations; he had told himself that he had done it to prove to both of them that they were making something out of nothing. Keith didn’t believe himself when he said that, not in the slightest bit, but he had kept repeating it to himself during the four hour drive they took at dawn. They had packed into Pidge’s mother’s jeep, and no one had batted an eye when they left Garrison grounds.

The first and second warehouses were unguarded and had been filled with spare parts, tires, and destroyed vehicles. Keith had offered to scour the locations with her, but it had only taken a five minute walk through for Pidge to say with a set jaw that these were not the warehouses they were looking for. So they drove to the third, one with the door barred shut and heavily chained. Pidge had knocked along the tin sides of the warehouse, ear pressed against the exterior till she had heard what she had been looking for.

What had looked like a loose piece of panelling peeled off easily; the square above it and the square below gave way easily as well, revealing a sleek metal door with three keypads. The password for the keypads changed every day, Pidge had explained, but she had managed to find out what pattern those changes follow. There had been no retinal scan or facial recognition scan that was common amongst so many other high-security Garrison buildings. Instead Pidge had a final card she had to tap, one that Keith found out later had to change every day as well. When he asked her how she had gotten it, she had just shrugged and grinned.

The warehouse they entered had been a lot smaller than the previous two. It looked like it had semi-regular visitors— there were no thick layers of dust over the racks or the large tires lining the wall, nor did it smell forgotten like the other two buildings had. Keith and Pidge had made their way to the back of the building, gingerly approaching a metal grate. Pidge and Keith pulled off the grate, revealing a descending set of stairs that led to a metal door.

Pidge used her card again to get them access, and Keith inhaled sharply when the door slid open.

“In the basement of the warehouse was the Beechcraft you were supposed to take,” Keith says. “The one they had said had gotten wrecked.”

Grief had been a beast that Keith had barely managed to tame. When the door had opened and Keith had seen the dark grey metal with the familiar orange stenciling, his world had fallen apart for the third time within that year.

He doesn’t tell Shiro that.

“Yours was the only one that had been grounded before it left our air space,” Keith sneaks a proper look at Shiro to see if he’s had any reaction. Shiro shifts in his seat, and Keith can tell he feels extremely unsure. “Everyone else had made it over.”

Keith’s left out anything in the story that would indicate the depth of his mourning, and has tried his best to lay out only the facts. Keith knows that despite his outwards reticence, he feels in spades and he’s scared to tell Shiro of his sadness, scared that the intensity of it might come off as manipulation. But the discovery with Pidge had unleashed something new within Keith. There had been disbelief and anger coursing through him, weaved in with the hope at the thought that Shiro had _not_ been shot down.  It brought forth a new question — if the Holts and Shiro had never left, then where _were_ they?

It had been hard knowledge to live with, especially when it was clear that the Garrison, or a group of people at the Garrison had been involved. Admiral Sanda had extended a pragmatic hand of comfort after Shiro’s death, and had also been storing information that indicated that Shiro’s death was not what it seemed. In that moment, Keith’s world had tilted, and he didn’t know how he was going to go back.

“I left the Garrison after,” Keith says, and Shiro frowns.

“You just left?” He asks a little incredulously, and Keith nods.

It turned out that he didn’t need to think about how to confront Sanda, or _if_ he should confront Sanda. A junior officer had told him off for a minor dress infraction in front of one of their COs and Keith had made it known with his fists that he didn’t care. It had lead to him being issued undefined leave and Keith had taken it. Since then, Keith’s whole world had revolved around finding out where Shiro was. Pidge had joined him a month later without a word, along with a cargo pilot and an engineer who she claimed to be trustworthy. They had been on the road for two and a half weeks before they had run into Allura and Coran at a truck stop.

It had been an orchestrated meeting on Allura’s behalf— her father had gone missing under similar circumstances five years earlier, and she had gotten wind of Keith and the others setting up a hunting trail for answers. Allura had a considerably larger amount of resources and an air medal with her father’s name engraved on the back, and the six of them had folded in together as a team. Each of them had been following their own lead, and Keith later learned that Pidge and her friends had been suspended for attempting to break into a high-security facility and had only gotten caught by accident. It had been severe enough to land them under the threat of being court-martialed, so they had turned tail and not looked back.

A month before they had found Shiro, the group had been contacted by a mysterious organization based out of a one-horse town. Marmora had a written population of three hundred and fifty people, and none of the organization’s members were listed as residents. They had not been forthcoming with who they were, only that they too were ex-soldiers who knew of Shiro specifically. Keith hadn’t trusted them initially, and neither had Allura. The organization didn’t look like they were out to win them over either, but the leader of the group had given Keith a map.

“You had been driving through California and Nevada for the past few weeks at that time,” Keith tells Shiro. He pauses before the next part, but decides to go for it anyways. “They told me that you had no memory, that you thought you were driving east but kept circling back to southern California and stopping by similar locations.”

Keith hadn’t believed them, but they had given him a location of a Kwik-e-Mart that Shiro had stopped at three times already. They said he had been heading in that direction again, so Keith and Hunk had decided to stake it out despite Keith’s reservations. They had taken up the role of two bored shoppers, and twenty minutes into the wait Keith had been ready to give up.

But at roughly three in the afternoon, the bell for the door chimed as Shiro walked in through the doors. Keith thought he had been hallucinating for a second; Shiro had looked so different, but it was unmistakably him. The noise around him quietened down and his vision tunneled onto the man that had been missing for so long. He was overcome by an urge to rush Shiro, to throw himself towards him but Hunk had held him back, hissing to him in a whisper to approach calmly. To just pretend to bump into Shiro. Just in case. And when Keith had, well— Shiro hadn’t recognized him at all and _that_ had stung beyond words. Hunk had to practically peel him out of the store once Shiro cashed out, and had to calm Keith down so much that they missed Shiro pulling out of the parking lot. When they had gone back to the motel room they had been temporarily calling home, Keith had retched in the washroom, completely overcome.

It took him two days to get a hold of his senses enough to approach the organization again. They told Keith that they had been working to keep Shiro out of harm’s way, that they had been looking for Keith specifically and that there might be dangerous people after Shiro. One member had his number programmed into Shiro’s phone as his father, and had been using that as a method of monitoring him.

They told Keith that they had known Shiro for almost an entire year but had only recently found out his whole name and fragments of his past. They had kept their mouths shut about where and how they had found Shiro, insisting that all Keith needed to focus on was to find him and take him home, and it’s been equal parts haunting and driving for Keith.

“And I swear to god,” Keith finally finishes, mouth dry after all the talking. “I didn’t know you were being kept a prisoner anywhere. Pidge and I had followed so many leads and none of them led to anything or pointed anywhere. We even tried to scour the Garrison the best we could, and found nothing.”

Keith prays that Shiro believes him. He _needs_ Shiro to believe him, even if he’s hesitant to share the more personal details. He’s put everyone else under strict orders not to tell Shiro about the true nature of his relationship with Keith because he doesn’t want to put undue influence into the equation. He’s been told it would be a good hook to get Shiro into staying and not freaking out, but that sounds like entrapment and makes Keith uneasy.

It’s a decision he can feel in his gut he might regret though, especially with the look Shiro’s giving him. Keith wants to know what Sendak revealed to him, what exactly Sendak had told Shiro, but he knows he doesn’t deserve to ask Shiro for it.

“You lied to me about how you knew me though,” Shiro says quietly. “You said you knew me before the accident, even though you knew there had never been one.”

“It’s not a lie,” Keith insists weakly. “I did know you.”

“But you didn’t tell me I had been missing,” Shiro’s voice ticks up in annoyance, and he leans in. “And you knew my father wasn’t my father. There’s so much you hadn’t told me— were you planning to tell me at any point?”

“I couldn’t tell you straight off the bat, could I?” Keith replies, and Shiro’s frown deepens. “Right after I met you, you had people attack you and you started saying something about an accident. I went along with it so that you wouldn’t run away. I wanted to you close so that I could keep you safe.”

“You could have told me after,” Shiro says, and Keith nods.

“I wanted to,” Keith wills his voice not to crack. “I didn’t know when, but I swear I wanted to. I’ve been trying my hardest to handle this. I’ve been trying to push the Blades for more information, but they won’t talk further with me until they see you’re safe in person.”

Even though Shiro doesn’t reply to that, Keith knows automatically that what he’s said hasn’t been enough. He doesn’t know if Shiro will trust him, if he’ll even like Keith after this, but he needs Shiro to believe him. So Keith gets up and leaves the kitchen, heading towards the front landing. He finds where his jacket’s hung up, and digs through the pockets. When he feels the familiar chain, he yanks it out and goes back to the kitchen where Shiro’s sitting, head turned towards Keith. Keith subtly runs a thumb over the name engraved onto the metal before he walks over to Shiro and drops it on the table in front of him.

“These are yours,” Keith says as he goes back to his seat. He watches as Shiro picks up the tags and reads over the familiar name and blood type.

It’s silent again as Shiro holds it up to the light, and turns it over in his prosthetic hand. Keith thinks about his own, tucked deep into his jacket pocket, and how it hasn’t seen the light in almost a month. Something flashes over Shiro’s face, but it’s not recognition. It’s defeat.

“I don’t know what to think,” Shiro is quiet when he speaks, dropping the chain into his other palm. He closes over the tag and squeezes, stares at the empty table instead of at Keith. “I was apparently a different man in the past.”

“You’re still-” It’s knee jerk on Keith’s behalf, but Shiro cuts him off abruptly.

“Whatever you think I am,” Shiro says, sounding immeasurably tired. “I’m not, Keith.”

It hurts, in a selfish way, hearing Shiro say that. Keith wants to reach out to tell him, wants to maybe tell him that no matter what, he’ll always be the same man Keith’s loved for over half his life, no matter how many times the pieces of him realign or fall apart. Keith doesn’t think he’s ready though--neither of them are. And as he contemplates this, the emotional gravity of the situation finally bears down on him hard. Keith’s head has started to swim and he’s nauseous at the very thought of digging in any further. Something hot pricks at the corner of his eyes and suddenly, Keith knows he’s on the verge of crumbling.

“Do you want me to go?” Keith asks, not making eye contact with Shiro. The answer comes as no surprise.

“I’ll go,” Shiro says. “I need to be alone.”

It takes a minute for Shiro to push back from the table and get up. Keith doesn’t look at him once, not even at his back as he retreats out of the room. He waits till he hears Shiro climbing up the stairs and slam the door of their room shut before he blinks, and let whatever tears he had been trying to keep at bay trickle down.

 

* * *

  


Keith manages a fitful sleep till around half past ten, the latest he’s slept in for a while. He had been reeling, but Keith’s been pushing himself hard over the past few days and has been ignoring the way his chest tightens occasionally when he breathes too deeply. Keith’s got an extremely high breaking point, but he’s approaching it rapidly. So when the last of his choked out sobs had died out in the kitchen, Keith had flopped onto the sofa in the living room. It’s a shitty old thing that feels like it’s got rocks buried under the worn out pleather, but Keith treats the discomfort as penance.

Unsurprisingly, when Keith wakes up, he finds out that Shiro hasn’t left his room, nor does he have any plans to do so. Allura and Hunk have been able to bring him food, but he’s reusing to talk with anyone. He hasn’t been aggressive about it— he’s told everyone he needs time to himself, time to think. It’s so painfully Shiro and Keith tamps down on the voice that says it is, minus the fact that Shiro wants to be away from Keith altogether.

He still doesn’t know if he’s done the right thing; the past few days, weeks, _year_ has been so emotionally taxing that Keith doesn’t even know if he should have let himself make such a call. He’s been throwing himself into the physicality of keeping Shiro alive, sustaining himself on the relief that comes with finding a loved one alive. But there’s a clear fissure in their trust now, and Keith finds himself at a loss.

Keith wants to interrogate Sendak, but the sedative Allura and Lance had given him was extremely strong. Coran tells Keith he shouldn’t be exerting himself like this anyways, not at this precarious time. The house is tense to the point where it’s almost suffocating, and it takes one pitying look from Hunk at the sink when Keith tries to get a glass of water for Keith to decide to find a task to complete anyways.

Allura asks him if he wants to try to get in touch with a member of the Blades, but Keith knows they’ll only come if Shiro’s there. And he’s not sure if Shiro’s going to stay with them right now. He gives Allura the number of the man who had been masquerading as Shiro’s father and wishes her the best of luck with contact. He picks around in his head to find something he can do to take his mind off things, and thankfully manages to hone in on a task. Keith looks on the key rack in the kitchen, and feels some sort of mild satisfaction when he finds what he’s looking for.

On Keith’s way out, Lance asks him if he wants to come help pick up the first two of the four vehicles that need to be retrieved. Pidge had managed to load her motorcycle into Allura’s truck before they had escaped but  Keith’s motorcycle is still mounted on Hunk’s truck, which is sitting idle at their last outpost. Shiro’s truck has been picked up from a ditch by a tow truck driver Hunk trusts, and she’s currently hiding it in her family’s junkyard. Lance and Hunk have plans to go get Lance’s car from where it’s sitting in a Denny’s parking lot first, because they’re tired and it’ll be the easiest one to pick up. Keith grunts, not bothering to indicate whether or not it’s a refusal, and pushes past Lance.

It takes a moment because the padlock’s finicky, but Keith manages to open the chains for the barn out back. He coughs as the a breeze of wind picks up the dust from the dirt floor, small particles floating through the rays of light beaming in through the high windows.  Keith sees his target sitting in the back of the barn, the white steel body glinting and calling to him.

Keith knows that hiding is not the solution. That isolating himself helps no one, that he’s got a makeshift family that wants to help him out. That he has a man to protect.

But this too will be his penance.

 

* * *

 

It’s late evening by the time that Keith knocks on the door. Everyone’s retired early for the night, too tense from what had happened between Sendak, Shiro and Keith.

Lance and Hunk have claimed tiredness from having to retrieve Lance’s car, while Pidge has said she wants to continue researching as much as she can on Sendak with Allura’s help. Occasionally, someone’s gone to check in on Shiro, but he’s not been very conversational during his stay. Coran has been the only one who has hung around after Keith had finally emerged from the barn, greasy and covered in dirt, and offered Keith a game of gin rummy when he had seen Keith eating his dinner alone at the table.

Coran had already given Shiro his food, and Keith took him up on his offer. They played a silent game, and Keith’s pretty sure Coran lost on purpose, but it calmed his nerves down before he made his way to his and— before he made his way to Shiro’s room, where he stands now with his hand knocking against the wood before he can hesitate.

He’s gentle with it, not wanting to sound too demanding, but Keith’s still nervous when he hears a gruff “Come in.”

Shiro looks unsurprised when Keith opens the door, and makes no greeting. He’s sitting on his bed, a book open on his lap. It’s one of the outdated mapbooks that lie around the house, Keith realizes.

“I was wondering when you’d come by,” Shiro says, but there’s no sense of friendliness to it. Shiro looks like he’s resigned himself to some fate and something in Keith clenches at the thought of being treated like a captor. He steadies himself though, and reminds himself that that’s why he’s shown up to Shiro’s room in the first place; to show that he’s not.

“Are you okay?” Keith asks, and Shiro shrugs.

“Everyone keeps telling me I’m not trapped,” Shiro says. “But I have no car and no money. Apparently, I have no family either.”

Keith closes his eyes for a second, and takes an inhale. He’s spent most of the day on a creeper under the belly of a car, rehearsing this very scenario as he tinkered around. He reminds himself that he’s presenting a solution for Shiro, no matter how he feels about it himself. That if Shiro takes him up on it, he’ll have to just think of a new plan. Keith has to remind himself of what Shiro would do if he was in his position.

“Shiro, everyone in this house has the same goal,” Keith starts, clearing his throat. “And it includes keeping you safe. But I can’t truly do that if you feel like you’re being held hostage. I can’t force you to stay.”

 _As much as I want you to,_ Keith manages to bite back. Instead, he digs into his back pocket and pulls out a small keychain. It’s got two keys and a small golden _WELCOME TO VEGAS_ charm on it that’s chipped at the bottom and stamped with a laughing lady’s face on the back. The team doesn’t know he’s taken it; a small part of Keith can’t help but feel his list of bad decisions just keeps getting longer, but he soldiers on anyways.

“The silver key is for the padlock on the barn out back,” Keith says, jingling the key a little. “It’s old, so you have to work it for a bit. The golden one is for the white Mustang sitting in the back. It’s got gas, and it runs great.”

Keith had poured himself into working on the car all day, and it had provided a great distraction and centering task for him. The car had been alright before, but Keith had went at it anyways, despite the fact that no one had any plans for using it. It had been halfway through balancing a new tire that Keith had gotten the idea to offer the car to Shiro. If Shiro sees it as a genuine offer, two things could happen.

Either Shiro sees it as a small sign to trust Keith and he stays, knowing he has an exit plan, or he leaves completely. Keith’s expecting the second, and it’s not something he’s happy about. But Shiro has always been his priority, and he can’t keep Shiro safe if he doesn’t feel safe. Even if it means that Shiro will leave him. And Keith’s told himself multiple times that either he’ll keep an eye on Shiro, or he’ll fight back whatever’s chasing down Shiro while Shiro gets a headstart on a new life. It’s admittedly not the most well thought out plan, but he’s in the room and he’s holding the keys up to the light.

“If you pop open the floor of the trunk, you’ll find a bag of money that’ll last you till you make it east,” Keith steps into the room tentatively, waiting for Shiro to tell him to stop. Shiro looks at him with raised eyebrows and says nothing, so Keith stops at the small desk near the door. He drops the keys on the aged oak, and steps back.

“I can’t make you stay,” Keith says, forcing the words out because he does. He _does_ want Shiro to stay, wants Shiro to get at least enough of his memory back that he trusts Keith like he had before. “I want to keep you safe, but I don’t want to hold you hostage. If you’re gone by the morning, I’ll understand.”

Shiro still doesn’t reply. His eyes are fixated where Keith has dropped his keys.  Keith shoves his hands back into his pockets and waits to see if Shiro will have any further reaction. Shiro doesn’t do anything, so Keith decides to extract himself from the room before his mouth starts to run away for him. He turns on his heel and heads out, intending to ask Pidge and Allura if he can use their shower before he crashes on the lumpy couch. He’s almost fully out the doorway when Shiro finally says something.

“Keith,” he calls out, and Keith immediately freezes. He looks over his shoulder at Shiro. Shiro’s still got his brows furrowed, but his face has softened by the slightest amount. Enough for Keith to tell, anyways. Keith straightens up.

“Thanks,” Shiro says, and Keith gives him a small nod before closing the door. It takes him a good five minutes to move from in front of Shiro’s door and even longer for him to stop wondering if that is the last time he’ll see Shiro again.

 

* * *

  


Shiro’s still there the next morning.

Keith sees him enter the kitchen tentatively, and Hunk pauses mid-conversation. Allura and Pidge are there as well, and they’re silent for a moment before they resume conversation.  There’s a chair beside Keith, but Shiro decides to sit in the empty one between Allura and Hunk instead. Coran spots him, and offers to pour him out some hot oatmeal.

Shiro doesn’t talk to Keith much, but he sits for breakfast at the dining table, listening as Allura asks him several questions about his arm, from how it feels to how it functions. Keith doesn’t mind not getting the attention, not at the moment anyways, because Shiro’s still here. She mentions something about wanting to poke around at it and Shiro nods. Keith watches as Allura continues talking, and Shiro sifts around the oatmeal in his bowl, looking less uncomfortable than he had yesterday. He looks up at Keith once during the entirety of it before redirecting his attention to Allura; there’s a small blessing in how there’s a lot less volatility in the way that Shiro looks at Keith now. It keeps Keith going when he approaches the task of the day with Pidge.

The basement of the house is half finished; the bedroom where Sendak is being kept is only partially floored, while the washroom has had its sink ripped out. The living room where Keith and Pidge are currently sitting has an old carpet, an older couch, and half its drywall knocked out. The dust makes Pidge sneeze occasionally as she fills Keith in on the information they had managed to extract from Sendak the day before.

They’ve gotten the name of his master; it’s a man called Zarkon, real name unknown, and his wife Honerva. Sendak claims the Galra is a scientific organization, and Allura calls it a cult. Either ways, it’s got military roots and there’s not much known about it to the public. On the state website, it says they develop technologies for prolonged sustenance in harsh and volatile environments.

The name’s presented as an acronym with no breakdown, but Allura had been able to fill in some gaps. Her father had been best friends with the founder— Allura had been young and hadn’t been let in on much, but she knew that her father had left for an expedition with Zarkon and a few other friends. He had never specified whether it was for work or not, but Alfor had come back from the trip extremely incensed. Shortly after, he had started a motion to get the department shut down. And shortly after that, his plane had malfunctioned mid-air during a test run, and had supposedly sunk to the bottom of the Pacific. That’s as much as Allura has been able to tell them, and Keith’s unnerved already.

“Sendak keeps saying weird stuff,” Pidge says, tapping on her keyboard. “He keeps saying that they are the veil, that  they exist in the void when we ask him where his base is.”

Keith frowns, and raises an eyebrow. “Do we have a location for the void?”

“Officially it’s some podunk town south of Albuquerque,” Pidge says, pressing her mouth in a thin line. “That’s where the Galra’s listed their base at anyways.”

“So that’s where we’ll go,” Keith says firmly, and Pidge shrugs.

“We should definitely scout it out first,” she points out. “Who knows what’s waiting for us. Wanna know what their motto is?”

“What?”

“Victoria aut mors,” Pidge replies, scrunching her nose and turning the laptop she’s on towards Keith “Victory or death.”

Keith squints at the screen, and looks at Pidge.

“This can’t be right,” he says, and Pidge shakes her head.

“I cross-checked it with county records and it’s true,” she says. “Could be faked.”

“It has to be,” Keith says. “If they’re involved with Shiro’s disappearance, then this wouldn’t be hard for them.”

“That’s what we’ve got to find out,” Pidge says. “We know for sure they were, because I can’t see how else Shiro would fall into their hands after the Garrison grounds him in secret. We need to find out why. And we need to find out what they did with my father and brother.”

“They’re alive,” It’s not a question. It’s a statement that Keith delivers with surety. “We’ll find them.”

“They are and we will,” Pidge nods. “And I think I know how to make Sendak talk for us.”

Keith still can’t stomach the sight of Sendak. When they enter the room, the man lays relaxed on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. When he hears them come in, he lolls his head to the side and gives them an unwelcoming grin. He licks drying lips as he looks at Keith, and Keith fights not to look away in disgust. The room smells like stale sweat and spit, even with the small fan they’ve left on in the corner of the room.

“We took really good care of him you know,” Sendak says as Keith draws a metal chair up to the side of the bed. Keith ignores him in favour of brushing off the dust on the seat. “They’ll come for him. They want him more than you do.”

Keith bites the inside of his cheek so that he doesn’t visibly react. Instead, he sits down coolly on the chair and crosses his arms over his chest. Pidge takes a seat near the foot of the bed, close enough that she’s brushing Sendak’s feet. He twitches at the touch, but can’t do much past his restraints.

“Why do they want him?” Keith asks evenly, as Pidge opens up her laptop again. “Why Shiro?”

“We’ve invested so much in him already,” Sendak says, eyeing Pidge as she pulls up a file on her laptop. “Can’t get an arm like that through your insurance company.”

“Yeah well,” Keith says, uncrossing his arms and leaning forward. “They’re going to be disappointed. They can’t have him.”

Sendak barks out a laugh at this, and the air around him slowly goes acrid.

“I know you, Keith,” Sendak’s voice curls gravelly around Keith’s name, and Keith suppresses a shudder. “You want to make him better, right? Want him to be the man he was for you? You know that if he’s returned to us, all that you miss of him will come back.”

“He’s not yours,” Keith replies darkly. “You can’t take him.”

“Why not?” Sendak gives another leering look to Keith, before shifting his sight to Pidge. She maintains a blank demeanour as she scrolls on her laptop, and effectively ignores him. “You can come with him. You’d make an excellent addition to our organization. And you’ll have Shiro back too.”

Keith clenches his fist for a moment, lets his nails dig into the meat of his palm till he feels the bite of it. He holds it for three seconds before relaxing, and leaning back in his chair.

“Are you working with the Garrison?” Keith asks, and Sendak narrows his eyes at him.

“Has Shiro told you what I told him yet?” Sendak deflects, and Keith replies with a stony look. “Or does he still not trust you?”

It’s meant to sting. Keith knows that. But it doesn’t compare to anything that he’s told himself, so he shrugs and raises an unaffected eyebrow as Pidge continues typing.

“Tell me what the Galra wanted to do with him,” Keith asks. “What they want to do with him.”

This time, Sendak sneers at him and jerks his foot. Pidge remains rooted where she’s seated, the only sound emitting from her being the soft clicking of her keyboard. Sendak shakes his leg again, and Pidge raises an eyebrow at Keith before looking back down at her screen.

“Whatever answer you think you’re going to find,” Sendak tells her. “Won’t even begin to approach the truth.”

“I wasn’t looking for an answer,” Pidge replies coolly. There’s a soft _swoosh_ sound from the computer, and three seconds later, Pidge turns the screen towards Sendak. “I was just looking for them.”

Keith catches a glance of the image on the screen a fraction of a second before Sendak does; it’s what allows him to shoot out a hand and press it flat against Sendak’s chest, pushing him down as he convulses and yells. Keith slides a hand up  and raises off his seat to pin Sendak down to the mattress by his throat. It’s not enough to hurt, just enough to shut him up.

“You _bitch_ ,” Sendak snarls, and Pidge gives him a wicked grin.

“I found them because I’m smart,” She says, turning the laptop back so that she can watch the CCTV footage of the grocery store. “But I’m guessing the Galra would only need a small tip before they find them as well.”

Sendak tries to yank his chains again; the metal bed posts give no way, but the bed scrapes against the floor in the slightest.

“We’re not trying to hurt you,” Keith says, in the same saccharine mocking voice that Sendak’s used on him. “We just want to get to know you better.”

“Think of this as incentive,” Pidge smiles coldly at Sendak, and it’s not the first time Keith’s wondered whether or not this whole thing’s broken the two of them in an irreparable way. “As long as you give us what we want to know, no one needs to find out that your family is still alive.”

 

* * *

 

That night, Keith takes the couch again. Coran’s offered to switch with him, and Pidge has suggested that they drag the extra bed in Shiro’s room out somewhere else so that Keith can at least get a better night’s worth of sleep. He’s turned them all down.

He takes a long shower in Allura’s room, letting the hot water steam over his skin till it turns pink. He has a private moment now, so Keith tries to cry. He tries to heave in an attempt to release the tightness that’s been sitting in his chest, but the well has run dry after months of pain. After Sendak’s interrogation, he and Pidge had sat in silence in a private corner of the house, and Keith had wondered how much of him had broken that he couldn’t even bring himself to cry.

Even at dinner, the two of them had kept quiet, contemplating. Allura had chattered on about the mechanics of Shiro’s arm, and Shiro hadn’t looked at Keith with the same sort of tension that he had been before. In fact, he had flitted between Keith and Allura, and Keith had wondered briefly what exactly Allura had told Shiro that had made Shiro look less like a cornered animal. He wasn’t going to question it though, because he had to think about how he was going to deliver the information from the interrogation to Shiro. It’s something he’s still thinking about, because he knows that he needs to tell Shiro, if Sendak hasn’t already told him. He knows the time for hiding things from Shiro has come and passed.

It had been hard talking to Sendak. Hard to hear the answers they extracted, hard to hear about Shiro.

Keith doesn’t know what Sendak told Shiro, but if it’s even a fraction of what he told Keith, he doesn’t blame Shiro for any amount of terror and uncertainty that would have taken over him. Keith had felt himself collapsing on the inside as Sendak had half spoken, half spitted out what exactly Shiro had been used for.

And Keith knows that he can’t hide this. That it’s not his story to conceal and keep Shiro safe from. That Shiro has the right to know, if he wants to know. A small voice coils in him and tells him that he might as well go all out with telling Shiro the truth, but this is different. This is miles different, and Keith needs to find out how he’s going to tell Shiro. If Shiro wants to talk to him at all, because he had been absent at dinner, and had only said goodnight to Hunk. Keith had asked Allura how her time with Shiro had gone, and she had simply given him a soft small smile before turning her attention to Lance. He tries to think about what Shiro would do, look for advice within the piece of him from before that Keith’s got locked away in his heart. It gives him the answer, but Keith still feels unsure.

For now, Keith can only run his fingers over bruised knuckles under the spray of water and wonder what happens next.

Shiro hasn’t left yet; that’s a relief. Keith knows it’s more to do with the ever-clarifying fact that outside their protective ring, Shiro’s going to be hunted down like a wild animal. It’s something that Shiro could survive— he’s immeasurably strong and he’s made it so far without Keith hovering near him like a spectre of what had been. However, everyone has a breaking point, and Keith wants to make sure that Shiro never reaches his again. If the light that has guided him through so much of his life flickers out, the darkness will swallow Keith up whole.

Maybe his need to keep Shiro safe borders on selfish. Maybe even possessive. But under it all, Keith knows that if Shiro doesn’t remember him, doesn’t _ever_ remember him, Keith’s not going to force his hand. He’s not going to try and make him rebuild an imitation of the life they had, just to soothe Keith. They’ve found a threat and if it’s eliminated, it’s more than enough. If Shiro builds a new life without Keith, it’ll snap Keith’s chassis in half. But he’ll happily take that over Shiro being dead or missing.

Above all, Shiro being safe and alive is enough for Keith.

The next day, they only have Shiro’s car to retrieve. Hunk and Lance had picked up Hunk’s truck and Keith’s motorcycle while Keith had been interrogating Sendak with Pidge. Allura and Lance are tasked with retrieving the pickup, while Pidge wants to take a go at Shiro’s arm. Keith’s decided to take to the garage with Hunk, and fix up both their vehicles.

Keith had a restless night’s sleep. He doesn’t think he’ll ever not be haunted by what Sendak said to him. And Sendak said he had only been scratching the surface, that there are things that Sendak knows only tertiarily that are a lot more sinister than anything he’s said. He had tossed and turned on the sofa, trying to edge out Sendak’s voice, but it had been too hard. When he saw Pidge in the morning, dark circles under her eyes, he knew she had had the same problem.

But they need to move forward. Keith needs to tell Shiro, if Shiro wants to hear. He has to get into contact with Kolivan and let him know who they have sitting in their basement. And he needs to check the engine on his bike and help Hunk hammer out a few dents from the body of his truck. It’ll hopefully be enough to get his mind engaged on something a lot more present, and a lot more fixable.

Keith calls Kolivan four times before he gives up and leaves a message. It’s short, succinct, a _We have Shiro and a man named Sendak who says he’s part of the Galra_ before he hangs up, knowing that Kolivan only wants details he asks for. He tries Ulaz’s number as well, memorizing what he had seen on Shiro’s phone, but the line’s been disconnected. It’s the most Keith can do, so he tucks his phone in his back pocket and grabs a rag from the kitchen, slinging it over his shoulder before he heads out to the garage.

The morning is hot, warming up to what will be a blistering day. The garage adjacent to the house is barely better, smelling like garbage and oil and car parts. Hunk’s already on a creeper under his truck, tapping away at something, and gives a greeting when he hears Keith step in.

“How’s it going?” Hunk asks, rolling out from under the belly of his truck. “Pidge told me a little about what happened yesterday.”

A soft ache runs through Keith’s hands again, and he grunts in return. He slides the towel off his shoulder and throws it on top of the seat of his motorcycle as he approaches it. Earlier in the morning, before Lance left, he had run food down to Sendak in the basement. Lance had said that Sendak looked like he had been slipping in and out of consciousness and losing energy rapidly, and Allura noted that his blood pressure was dropping. Lance claims that Sendak looks like his light’s going out but— but his heart’s still beating steady.

“He said they were directly responsible for orchestrating Shiro’s death,” Keith says, crouching down to find the dipstick for the oil. He unscrews it and draws it out, inspecting the metal with a pinched nose before wiping it with his towel. “The Galra. The Garrison stepped aside and let them because they were well paid for it.”

And that they were curious, Sendak had added. The comment had made Keith shudder, as had everything else that had come after it.  Keith and Shiro had given so much of themselves to the Garrison. Both of them had come from empty homes, both of them had found purpose within the institution and each other. Keith had always thought that he would be the one to fail the Garrison, or to be thrown out of it. To know that it had been Shiro, who had given so much of his heart and his life and his time to the Garrison, that had gotten traded in like a pawn, had filled Keith with some sort of indescribable rage.

Keith doesn’t offer any information past that. Thankfully, Hunk doesn’t prod him further. Hunk normally doesn’t, and more often than not it leads to Keith opening up to him on his own. They work without speaking for the better part of the hour, Hunk poking around under the hood of his truck as Keith runs a compression test on his motorcycle. The air heats up as the sun crawls up the sky, and by the time noon rolls around, Keith can feel the pool of sweat collecting at the dip of his spine. He lifts his shirt to wipe at the bangs plastered on his forehead, and turns to tell Hunk he’s ready to help him fix the body of his truck.

“Hey, I-” Keith cuts himself short when he sees who’s standing against the frame of the open garage door.

For the first time in the past two days, Shiro is looking at Keith. He’s got two water bottles in one hand, and granola bars in the other. Undoubtedly, this is an errand from Coran.

“Shiro,” Hunk slides out from under his truck and sits up. “What’s up man?”

“Coran sent me,” Shiro says, and tosses one of the bottles to Hunk. Hunk catches it easily, along with the granola bar that follows shortly. To Keith’s mild surprise, Shiro doesn’t toss him the food and go. He approaches him instead, hands held out with the offerings.

Shiro doesn’t say anything so tentatively, Keith reaches out for the water.

“Thanks,” he says, unscrewing the lid, and Shiro nods.

“What are you guys doing here?” he asks, and Keith can feel Hunk look at him briefly before replying.

“We’re just hammering out the dents from my truck,” Hunk says. Shiro’s still got his gaze fixed on Keith, and Keith shifts from one foot to another. “Is Pidge done with you?”

“She stopped midway,” Shiro says. “Said she realized something, and told me to go find something to do.”

“Sounds like something she’d say,” Hunk replies, eyes flitting between Shiro and Keith. “Want to help out here instead?”

“Let him rest,” it stumbles out of Keith like a knee-jerk reaction. Part because he means it and part because if Shiro’s here, then Keith needs to think faster about how he’s going to handle what Sendak had told him, and how he’s going to tell Shiro.

“I’d rather help,” Shiro finally breaks eye contact with Keith, and offers a small smile in Hunk’s direction instead. “I’ve done a lot of resting, and it kind of sucks to just sit around with my own head for company.”

Hunk looks at Keith one last time, seemingly for permission. Keith picks at the collar of his shirt, lifting it to wipe sweat off the bridge of his nose.

“The dolly’s over there,” Keith tips his chin, and Shiro follows it. “We’ll probably get it done faster with three pairs of hands.”

Shiro nods, and Keith is reminded of the time when he was a gangly fifteen year old, hanging around his cooler older friend as he pretended he knew what he was doing while he was fixing up his first motorcycle. Shiro had bought his on a whim, because his other vehicle option was his grandfather’s minivan. Keith thinks that seeing Shiro hold out a helmet for him and asking him if he’s ever been on a bike before can definitely be pinpointed as the moment some sort of puppy love bloomed within him. Shiro had taken to the bike like a fish in water, and it had been what had driven Keith to spend his allowance on a shitty little dirt bike so that he could try and keep up with Shiro as they tore down unkempt side roads.

“Keith?” Hunk calls out his name, and Keith snaps out of his little day dream.

“Yeah,” Keith says. “I’m coming.”

They work in silence for the first bit while they work out the small dents in one of the passenger doors. Shiro holds  the dolly up as Hunk and Keith hammer out the little indents. They work deftly, with only Hunk speaking every now and then, asking Shiro if he wants to come buy food with Hunk tomorrow. Shiro says he does, asks if Keith’s coming too. Keith perks up at that, but deflates when he remembers he’s got to hold down the fort with Coran and Pidge tomorrow. It’s not till Hunk’s cranking the car jack under the truck so that he can remove a balding tire, that Shiro speaks.

“Pidge told me you guys made some headway with Sendak,” He says. Keith pauses from where he’s looking for a torque wrench in the rolling cabinet, and Hunk keeps humming the song he was humming.

“Yeah,” Keith nods, pausing. Tension makes him taut, and he can feel it in his shoulders. He knew as soon as Shiro stepped into the garage that they’d be having this conversation a lot sooner than Keith wanted to, so Keith closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in, thinking of how much to let through the sieve at a time.

He turns slowly, and can tell Shiro was already well on his way to asking Keith if he was willing to share. Shiro presses his mouth in a thin line, and Keith nods at him. “I’ll tell you, if you want to hear. I don’t know what he told you yesterday though.”

“Sendak already told me some,” Shiro says, throwing his  rag into the centre of the empty tire and leaning against the hood of Hunk’s truck. “He told me that they faked my death.”

“And his own,” Keith nods, passing the wrench to Hunk. The tire is a one person job, so Keith pulls close a wooden stool to sit down on. “Really well, actually.”

His own death was to escape the public at large and fall into the dark folds of the Galra. He was a retired general who had the brakes on his car fail in the face of an oncoming truck; there were photos of a crumpled car that had been near-compressed, and a night crawler had posted video footage of his limp arm hanging out from the door on an online shock site. It was a close casket funeral, and Sendak had officially dropped off the map.

What the Galra don’t know is that the gas leak that had claimed the life of his wife and three children a little over two years later had been orchestrated as well. Sendak’s speciality was wiping someone’s existence off of the earth and in addition to Shiro and the Holts, he had been doing it for a handful of other people instead, all military.

Keith and Pidge had showed the CCTV footage of his wife pushing a cart through  an overcrowded grocery store in a medium sized city in the midwest in hopes that they’d be able to get the one up on him. The initial plan had been to tell him they knew where they lived; but the initial reaction he had to the footage led to Pidge taking a gamble and pretending that she knew for certain that the Galra didn’t know his family was still alive. It had paid off, and Keith knows they’ve got something in the pocket now for Sendak.

They’re not quite sure what Sendak’s motivations are for hiding his family, but Keith supposes that’s just something one does when they decide to join an organization that colludes with military. They have no plans to harm the family, just like they have no plans to actively harm Sendak or torture information out of him. It’s a lot more effective to offer Sendak protection for his family from the Galra, if and when the time comes. It’s something Keith knows Shiro would have been proud of him for, but he leaves that part out in his retelling.

“He said he did it for others too, right?” Shiro asks, and Keith nods. Shiro’s mouth turns downwards, and it’s more knowing than questionable. “He said they picked me because I had a disease.”

Keith knows that Sendak told Shiro that he wasn’t the only one the Galra have kidnapped; just the only one that managed to stick for as long as he did. The Galra have been plucking off people from institutions for years, and Shiro’s card came up while he had been getting cleared for the peacekeeping mission.

“You had run the risk of a hereditary disease,” Keith says. “But you didn’t actually have it. It came up on your report before your last mission, and the Garrison had shown concerns over it.”

Shiro hadn’t been officially been diagnosed with it, but he had a flare of symptoms around the time of his last physical. There was a decent probability of it being reigned under control when Shiro was to return from the mission, enough that he could continue the path that he was on for years. But the small note of concern was enough of an excuse for the Galra to slither into the Garrison’s ear and convince them to hand over Shiro. It took a little fudging here and there, and the official report had been modified to fully diagnose Shiro with a degenerative disease, and Shiro’s plane had been grounded an hour out into the flight and looped back to a smaller base.

The Holts had come along as a bonus package. Sendak told Keith and Pidge that he has no idea where her family is, just that they are alive and still with the Galra. Pidge had almost given in to delivering some violent feedback, but Sendak thrived in chaos, and Keith could see the uptick in his expression when Pidge got visibly affected by his words. He had to hold her back from doing anything, lest they lose whatever momentum they had with Sendak.

“Sendak said that the Galra told the Garrison they were going to weed out my disease,” Shiro says, watching Hunk torque the lugnuts on the tire. “That was what they used as an umbrella statement anyways.”

An umbrella statement to whisk Shiro away at any rate. Sendak claims he wasn’t part of the team that ran experiments on Shiro, but has an intimate knowledge of them anyways. Keith’s hesitant to tell Shiro what Sendak told him, but Shiro looks at him with a sort of fierceness that he’s weak to.

“I owe you the truth and I’ll tell you what he told me,” Keith says quietly, not quite making eye contact with Shiro. “But if it gets too hard to hear at any point, tell me to stop.”

“He told me all of it already,” Shiro says, and there’s a certain lack of emotion in his voice that indicates it’s been haunting him. “He told me about the drugs and the virus they had reintroduced into my system to ‘weed’ the disease out. And about the cybernetics that came after.”

Sendak had unraveled with some sort of glee that Shiro’s arm had been removed on purpose, for a dual purpose; to assess both the disease and to test out the first in line of a new wave of cybernetic prosthetics. It had taken five different arms before they found one that took to Shiro properly. Sendak took no pains in hiding the fact that attaching and testing each arm had been an extremely painful process for Shiro, and an extremely enlightening study for the Galra.

The level of control Shiro had over his prosthetic was unheard of; there is no other prosthetic that functions as much like a human hand as Shiro’s does. There is no other prosthetic that functions more than that either, but Sendak laughed in their face when they asked him to clarify. He did tell them how they tested the arm though, and they had tested it repeatedly till they were sure Shiro had been formed into something they took pride in.

“Jesus,” Hunk breathes. He’s stopped pretending he’s paying any attention to his car, and sits back on his haunches to stare at Keith. “What do you mean they tested it?”

Keith sneaks a glance at Shiro, who’s staring at him with his jaw set. Shiro nods, and Keith closes his eyes. “Sendak didn’t take part in any of the experiments, but he did shuttle Shiro back and forth between the Galra’s medical ward and an empty warehouse south of Socorro where other kidnapped people, Garrison and otherwise, had been brought to as well.

Keith pauses, and his fist starts to curl into itself. This part of the story is harder to tell; it was one of the ones where he hadn’t pressed Sendak for further details, despite it being the one which Sendak had wanted to describe in-depth.

“They made me fight,” Shiro tells Hunk, and Hunk goes rigid. “That’s how they tested the arm.”

There’s a finality to the sentence that leaves no room for questioning, and Keith wonders just exactly how much Sendak had told Shiro about it. Three days out of the week, Shiro would be sent to the warehouse to undergo rigorous physical testing to see the extent of his arm’s function. The Galra had decided that the best thing to test the arm against were human subjects, and that had been as far as Sendak had gotten before Keith had punched a hole into the wall above his head.

“Apparently I escaped right before their final experiment,” Shiro says, clearing his throat and moving the topic forward. “Did he tell you what it was?”

Keith shakes his head; all he knows is that it’s part of the reason Shiro’s memories were carved out of him. Sendak had spoken cryptically about it, telling them that the Galra had one final plan for Shiro. It had been Zarkon’s master plan, one that he and his wife had been determined to see through till completion. Shiro’s disappearance had thrown the Galra into chaos for the past couple of months, and they hadn’t been able to catch wind of him till the day that Keith had hitched a ride with him.  Zarkon and Honevra had posted a huge bounty on Shiro’s head, one that many were eager to collect, but there had always been some silent force keeping Shiro just out of reach.

“The Blades,” Hunk says, and Keith nods. The Blades haven’t been very forthcoming with their information, but they managed to keep Shiro just out of harm’s reach. Keith wonders if Sendak has an inkling, but Sendak had started to babble when he started talking about the bounty. He had refused to say what it was, but he had claimed it was beyond anything the two of them could comprehend. Sendak had then dissolved into a fit of laughter when prodded further, and had started goading the two of them, telling them to kill him the same way he had been yelling at Shiro when Keith had barged in on them. He had told Keith that it was _his_ fault that they found Shiro.

“As soon as we found out you were looking for him,” Sendak had leered. “It made things so much easier. You’re not an easy person to miss, Red.”

Pidge had immediately stuck a needle in the side of Sendak’s neck filling him with horse sedative and putting him out like a light.

“It was luck,” Hunk says almost immediately, and both Keith and Shiro look at him. “We were really careful about flying under the radar. It happens when you’ve got a court order out on you. Sendak just found you two by luck.”

Hunk’s telling the truth. Sendak had actually been stationed a few hundred miles north of where they had been, but a low-ranking member had coincidentally seen Shiro’s plates pull into a gas station on the same day, so the Galra had trekked back to where Shiro had been kept. They had scoured four different motels before they had chanced upon Shiro’s. Hunk had found this out when he had relieved Sendak of his phone when they had initially dragged him into the basement.  Knowing this hadn’t stopped guilt from punching Keith in the gut though. He tells himself that Shiro would have been in more danger if Keith hadn’t swooped in but for a fraction of a second, Sendak’s words had made him doubt himself on a fundamental level.

“So what now?” Shiro asks, and Hunk and Keith exchange a glance. “Are we going to look for the Galra?”

“Sort of,” Keith replies, nodding. He pushes off the stool, letting out a short groan as his legs creak. He kicks the stool to the side, and walks over to where Hunk’s at his tire. He crouches down, and starts cranking down the carjack. “We have to find out more about them before we go barreling in.”

“Like how dangerous they are,” Hunk supplies. “Or where their headquarters are located.”

“They’re probably coming to us,” Shiro’s brows pinch together. “If they’re working with military, I doubt they’d take long.”

“Yeah well,” Hunk grimaces, as Keith pulls the jack out from under his truck. “We managed to subdue them before, so.”

“And we’re getting in touch with the Blades,” Keith adds, looking up at Shiro where he’s still leaning against the truck. “Or trying to. I think they’re going to help us out once they see we’ve got you safe and alive.”

“They should,” Hunk says, raising an eyebrow. “They went through so much troubles in keeping Shiro alive.”

“If they don’t, we still need a plan,” Shiro says, pushing off the car. “We should only count on ourselves.”

There’s an undercurrent of command in that statement that has the hairs on the back of Keith’s neck standing up. He hasn’t heard it in so long, has resigned himself to perhaps never hearing it again, and it’s like seeing a ghost. Shiro’s holding himself differently now too, his shoulders more square and his chin tipped slightly out, like he’s looking down at a cadet. Keith automatically feels himself straightening his spine, and hears Hunk clears his throat.

“Yeah,” Keith says faintly. “You’re right.”

 

* * *

 

 

Pidge requisitions Shiro again, and Hunk and Keith spend the rest of the day working on Keith’s motorcycle. Allura and Lance call, letting them know they’re going to be gone overnight; they’re doing a thorough scan of Shiro’s truck to make sure it’s not got any nasty surprises implanted into it in between the confrontation with Sendak’s group and the time they picked it up.

When Keith steps out of the shower that night, he chances a look at himself in the mirror while drying himself off. He knows he’s looked haunted for the better part of the year but with Shiro back, it’s fading away, leaving only exhaustion in its wake. The dark circles under his eyes have lessened and the crease between his brow that had seemed semi-permanent has eased up. His hair’s grown, much past regulation as Shiro would have said. If and when they make it out of this, Keith might cut it. For him, maybe.

Keith makes his way downstairs to the empty living room. With Allura and Lance gone, everyone’s retired to their rooms for an early night. Keith’s thankful for the lack of people because he still finds himself on the receiving end of more private pitying looks every time someone in the house runs into him, a reminder that he may have lost something.  He dumps his day clothes over the arm of the couch and tucks a knife under the large cushion he’s using as a pillow. He drops down on the couch, not swinging his legs over yet, and tips his head back. Keith closes his eyes and sighs, and tries to clear his head for a second.

The Blades still haven’t replied to his messages or his calls, and Keith thinks faintly that Shiro might be right. They may have only themselves to rely on; however, the Blades had gone through so much trouble just to keep Shiro alive and lead Keith to him. Keith wonders if it’s worth taking a day trip back to Marmora to deliver the news in person, and to see if he can physically wrangle out more help or information from them. Hunk is on board with this idea, as is Shiro, who was a little more animated at dinner that night.

Keith wants to know what’s going on in his head so bad; he had known Shiro like the back of his hand, still feels like he does in some way or the other, but it’s more instinct than actual knowledge now. Shiro’s holding himself with a little less reservation right now, but Keith doesn’t want to assume whether it’s out of gained comfort or what he perceives as necessity. He has no doubt that Shiro’s time with Allura and Pidge played some role in it;  they’ve each got a unique demeanour about them that makes one want to open up to them. It stings a little that Keith’s not managed to have the same effect, but he labels that a selfish thought and stores it away as such.

For now, all he can do is move forward. They have to find the Galra, they have to find answers and the Holts, they have to bring some sort of justice and comeuppance to whoever’s kidnapping people and using them as human experiments. He knows this. They can’t run away forever; it’s in neither blood nor bone for anyone in the house to cower. There have been worse odds than a rag-tag group of ex-soldiers and engineers against an underground sinister military organization.

The couch dips beside him, and Keith exhales through his nose. He tilts his head and cracks open an eye, ready to tell whichever well-meaning friend that’s come over to give him a pep talk that he just wants to sleep. Instead, he sees Shiro looking back at him. Keith immediately sits up, blinking open both eyes. He coughs, clears his throat, immediately at attention.

“Shiro,” Keith says carefully. “Is everything okay?”

Shiro nods slowly, and Keith notices he’s poised in a familiar way that’s supposed to evoke openness. Keith’s still alert, still cautious because Shiro approaching him alone like this is the most forthcoming he’s been in days. He sits up a little straighter and watches Shiro’s gaze drop down to his hands before he looks back up at Keith.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Shiro says, leaning forward the slightest in his seat. It looks casual but Keith knows better, knows how it looks like when Shiro’s aiming for a calculated level of comfort.

“Okay,” Keith replies, nodding along. Shiro doesn’t waver as he holds his gaze, and Keith feels like he’s starting to heat up under a spotlight.

“I wanted to know why you didn’t tell me the truth before,” Shiro says evenly. “I don’t- I don’t mean this in a confrontational way. I just want to know.”

Keith gives Shiro a questioning look, because he’s answered this before and Shiro hadn’t taken it too well. Shiro raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t fold his hands over his chest like he’s expecting an immediate answer. It takes a moment to pass over Keith before it dawns on him that this time, Shiro’s asking the question with the intent to listen without any emotion clouding his way.

“I didn’t know how to tell it to you,” Keith says slowly, giving Shiro an honest look as he turns slightly in his seat. “It was so much to tell to someone, and I didn’t want you to run away when I finally found you. I needed you to stay put where I could keep you safe.”

“That’s what you said last time too,” Shiro says, not unkindly, and Keith nods.

“My main goal has always been to find you,” Keith replies earnestly. “I didn’t know what to do after that, what to prepare for. I didn’t know how to deal with you losing your memories like this.”

In the months he had spent looking for Shiro, in the weeks leading up to Keith finally flagging him down on the side of the highway, Keith hadn’t taken into account that he might be erased so seamlessly from Shiro’s life. Keith’s lived in a world where he’s orbited around Shiro for as long as he remembers, but Shiro’s had a world built for him where they’ve never even existed in the same space before. Even dwelling on it now starts to scratch the surface of a deep pain.

Shiro leans back against the couch and closes his eyes. The lamp behind him illuminates him with a soft yellow glow in the dark living room, and Keith doesn’t stop himself from looking. Shiro’s bigger now, more muscled, and his jaw’s got a sterner set to it than it had before he had gone missing. He’s got surface changes too, like the scars, and he’s got a prosthetic that may or may not function as more than just a hand. These are the results of an experience within captivity that might have left a change within Shiro that’s dark and curling and only barely contained. Some part of Keith wonders if it’s raring at the gaits, ready to go if and when Shiro regains his memories.

“I’m sorry,” Keith gulps, trying to swallow down the small lump forming in his throat. He tries to keep his voice steady as  Shiro folds his arms over his torso, the lamplight catching the glint of his arm. “I’m really, really sorry that I hid the truth from you at the beginning. I just wanted to protect you.”

“Don’t be,” Shiro says almost immediately, but doesn’t make a move to look at Keith. “I think I might have done the same if I was in your place. I thought about it a lot over the past couple of nights. If you told me from the beginning, I would have thought you were crazy and ran.”

Keith doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t know what he’d do if he was in Shiro’s position. Maybe he would have run too, but he has no idea how to even begin trying to imagine what Shiro’s going through. So instead, he sits in silence and watches the even rise and fall of Shiro’s chest. He can see the knitted skin of another scar poke out from underneath the collar of Shiro’s shirt, and Keith’s morbidly curious as to how deep it runs. But even with all these physical changes, even with the memory loss, this is still Shiro and Keith’s learned fast in life to count all his blessings.

A full two minutes pass before Shiro finally opens his eyes. He’s not looking as wary as he did before; he seems to have come to terms for the moment with whatever he was thinking about, and he shifts on the sofa to better face Keith.

“So we were friends before this,” Shiro says, and Keith turns his torso as well so that he doesn’t have to look at Shiro out of the corner of his eye. “We must have been close.”

Keith blinks at the sudden change of topic, but there’s a lightness to it that he picks up. It’s an olive branch, he realizes almost immediately, and he’s willing to take it.

“We were barely acquaintances,” Keith tries his best to deadpan, and though it doesn’t come out as bland and unaffected as he hoped, Shiro still gives him the barest hint of a crooked grin. Keith tries to fight it, but it’s hard not to feel his heart lift a little at the gesture.

“Lot of effort for an acquaintance,” Shiro remarks, and Keith tries his best to give a nonchalant shrug. He knows he’s got to pick and choose his words carefully— he knows he’s supposed to be completely honest with Shiro, but he needs to keep their defined past hidden from him. Keith doesn’t want to exert any influence over him, and Keith’s scared that if he tells Shiro, Shiro’s going to feel like his hand’s forced and it’ll add another new layer of tension between them. But he’s not going to downplay Shiro’s importance in his life either, not when he knows they’re already both more vulnerable than they’d like to admit.

“I didn’t have a lot of family growing up,” Keith finds the words, honest in the way that they come out. “But I had you.”

He wants to tell Shiro that he was Keith’s everything. That he still is. That they have a lifetime of promises that are hanging in limbo. The words tug at his hand, waiting to be let go, but Keith holds on tight.

“I’ll do anything to keep you safe,” Keith says instead. He pauses for a second and adds, “Even if you don’t trust me.”

At those words, Shiro frowns again. The couch suddenly feels too small, and Keith's become acutely aware of the distance between them. Shiro inches over just the slightest, but it feels a lot closer.

“I do trust you,” Shiro says in earnest, leaning in. Drawn, Keith finds himself mirroring the action. “I'm angry but I'm not dense. You've saved me so many times already, and I'm thankful for that.”

“You're angry?” Keith asks quietly, and Shiro shakes his head.

“Not at you,” he explains. “At the situation. It had felt like I didn't know who I am. But now I _know_ that I don't know, and it makes me as angry as it does terrified. But Keith,”

He can start to feel his chest seize up at the way Shiro's voice softens at his name. It's painfully familiar, painfully intimate in a way that Keith didn’t know he would be able to hear again.

“I believe you,” Shiro finishes, voice firm and sure. Keith stares at him, an invisible hand around his throat choking him and preventing him from speaking any further. For a brief, flashing moment, Keith thinks Shiro is leaning in. His gaze is almost paralytic, and Keith's rooted in the moment, unable to move forwards or look back. Shiro presses his lips together and Keith's eyes drop to the action almost immediately. But Keith's doesn’t dare move in.

Silence passes over them for a moment, before Shiro breaks into a soft smile. He stands up, and Keith's throat still has a lump in it as his brain tries to process what passed between them.

“This couch sucks,” Shiro says, idly moving a pillow to lean against the armrest of the couch. “If you want, there's a free bed in my room.”

It takes a second for the words to walk through Keith's head, but he takes the peace offering almost immediately

“Sounds good,” he says softly, knowing that the look Shiro's giving him right now is still searching.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait guys! I got sidelined by other fics and August was a little crazy/I wasn't around for a lot of it OTL thanks so much for reading and sticking with this!! I heard that some of the past chapters earn the graphic violence tag, so i've thrown that on here. Also hey, some of season 7 worked perfectly for what I needed for this fic. heuheuheu


	5. Chapter 5

Shiro’s still got the keys to the Mustang in his pocket and his dog tags sit under his shirt, resting against his chest. He’s holding onto them in hopes that maybe reading the name on the tags for the hundredth time will jog his memory. The past few days have been tumultuous for him— an understatement, but if Shiro dwells on it any longer, he’s going to end up trapping his mind in a dark room and losing the key.

His knee-jerk reaction to Keith hiding the truth from him was distrust and anger and an incredible amount of hurt that everyone had been privy to who Shiro had supposedly been. Everyone but Shiro. But he’s had some time to think about it, some time to sit on a weathered old laptop Pidge had provided him and poke around to see if he could unearth any of his past. All he could see was a couple of articles with his name on it, and a link to an obituary that he had no mind to click.

Shiro has heavily considered leaving. Keith had provided him an out and Shiro had almost taken it. Before Allura had taken a look at his arm, Shiro had excused himself for a short while. He hadn’t planned on leaving the night Keith gave him the keys— it would be too easy, too quick, too unprepared.  But he had rounded back to the bar to take a look to see if there truly was a car waiting for him, that it just wasn’t a trap. The pristine white car sat there with a bag of money in the trunk, just as Keith had said.  Shiro got as far as turning the ignition on when he realized he didn’t know what he would do.

Shiro can’t head east— it’s clear that he doesn’t actually have a life waiting for him there. He doesn’t know where the memories of a small studio apartment and a lazy black cat came from, but he knows now that they aren’t his. The more he tries to revisit them, the more he tries to map out his old life, the more he sees the fractures in the memories. His cat’s not got a name anymore, he can’t remember the number on the door of his apartment, and his father is not his father.

His real father is dead, supposedly. Shiro doesn’t know how to process that, doesn’t know whether to chalk it up as a loss or not. Something in him tells him to compartmentalize, to store it away, to not dwell on it till he has a full picture so that he can survive whoever’s coming after him, and Shiro listens to it. Sitting against the old leather of the seats made Shiro realize that there was one constant in his life at the moment, one concrete fact that he knew; despite whatever information he had withheld from Shiro, there was one man who had proven multiple times in a short span of time that he wanted to help Shiro.

So he had turned off the ignition of the car and headed back into the house, ignoring whatever muffled sounds had floated in from the basement. Allura had been waiting there, all patience and kind eyes like everyone else in the house, and had led him to one of the workshops on the first floor that she shared with Pidge.

Allura wanted to examine the arm; she said they hadn’t gotten any emitting signals from it earlier, but she had never seen anything like it and wanted a closer look. Shiro doesn’t doubt for a second that was her primary purpose; both her and Pidge seem to have a clawing curiosity for his arm, and a morbid sort of fascination with it. But he knows that wasn’t her only purpose either.

Sendak had given him a picture of the time he had been missing. He had spoken freely of the experiments, the way they dissected parts of him to examine him, how they wanted to piece apart both Shiro’s brain and body to accomplish what Sendak said would be an “unprecedented gift for humanity”, not bothering to elaborate on what that was. He had told Shiro that he had been taken three days out of the week to a warehouse with other captured victims, soldiers and civilians alike, and had been made to put his strength and arm to the test under threat of further torture.

Allura gave Shiro a picture of Keith while she tinkered on his arm, chattering away, happy to do most of the talking. She had known him separately from Keith in the past, as they had been a part of the test-pilot training program together and she had been his junior. She had moved bases and had gotten wind of Shiro’s disappearance while looking for her own answers. By the time she had made it back to their Garrison, Keith had already left, so she had sought him out.

Allura told him about the time leading up to their discovery of him; Keith had been skeptical of the information they had been fed by the Blades, a group of ex-soldiers whose trust was hard earned. It had only been when Keith had proven he knew Shiro that they had divulged anything at all, and they’re still staying silent on who they truly are or how they knew where Shiro was. Or why they’re monitoring him. Despite his skepticism, Keith had been insistent the team follow the lead the Blades had provided anyways.

“There’s no one who fought harder to look for you,” Allura had said as she ran a small scanner over the palm of Shiro’s hand. “I don’t think he slept after we first found you, not for days. Even though you didn’t remember him, he still wanted to be the first one to get in contact with you.”

And there was that. An unspoken closeness between him and Keith that Shiro can’t remember. Something that’s fueled Keith for so long, something that’s made him throw himself up as a shield for a man that doesn’t remember him, a man that’s lost. Everyone’s given him a standard answer— that Keith and Shiro were close in Shiro’s past life, that he had meant a lot to Keith.

Shiro’s tried to prod Keith a little on it too, and Keith replied as cryptically as before, telling Shiro he was close but not to what degree. Shiro had been so close the night before to asking Keith point blank to tell him what they were in the past. He had felt drawn in by the way Keith had looked at him, pulled towards the man in a way he couldn’t explain. Shiro doesn’t know if it’s the ghost of who he was in the past, or gratitude and the genuine desire he felt when he first saw Keith. So that too has become something Shiro will compartmentalize and stow away, only letting it out in the form of letting Keith know he’s comfortable with sharing a room with him again.

They don’t speak much for the remainder of the night after their talk but in the morning, Shiro can tell that the line of tension that had been holding Keith upright has been dissipated. He’s still got a weariness to him that doesn’t look like it plans to go away any time soon, but when Shiro gives him half a grin at the breakfast table, his shoulders relax a fractional amount.

“Allura and Lance should be back in a few hours,” Pidge says through a mouthful of egg. “What’s our plan?”

“Extract a location from Sendak,” Keith says, and looks over at Coran. “We might need your help with it this time.”

“Keith punched a hole in the wall,” Pidge supplies, and Keith narrows his eyes at her. “What? You showed emotional compromise. Didn’t you give me and Lance a whole lecture on not doing that exact thing?”

“We have to get food,” Hunk cuts in, diffusing whatever retort Keith had. “Shiro, you still down to come?”

“Yeah,” Shiro nods, spooning some cereal into his mouth. It’ll be good for him to leave the house, especially after he’s been holed up. The garage doesn’t count as fresh air, neither does hanging out in the living room or the workshop.

“Keith, what about you?” Hunk asks, and Keith raises an eyebrow. “Wanna tag along? I’m sure Coran and Pidge can hold down the fort by themselves.”

Keith gives an uncertain glance between Hunk and Shiro, looking like he’s about to offer up an excuse. Shiro tries to give him an encouraging look and Keith visibly deflates a little before nodding.

“Sure,” he says, absently forking through his own food. “What car are we taking?”

“Lance’s,” Hunk says sagely, and Keith snorts. “Just because he told me not to touch it till he’s back.”

“Can you get me black licorice?” Pidge asks, and Hunk wrinkles his nose. “And Lance said he wants some Mike and Ikes. You know what, can you get some four loko too-”

“Did you guys hear something?” Hunk asks the room at large, and Pidge rolls her eyes and flips him off. “Or was it just a breeze?”

Pidge opens her mouth, but is cut off by her phone ringing from where it’s placed beside her plate. She glares at Hunk, who looks on innocently as she swipes to pick up the phone, the caller ID reading _ALLURA_.

“What’s up?” she says, making another rude gesture towards Hunk. She falters midway as a tinny voice echoes through the speaker. Even from a distance, Shiro can tell the low rumbling on the other end is neither Allura or Lance; the way Pidge’s expression drops confirms it. Keith and Hunk immediately straighten up, and Coran frowns.

“What-” Pidge starts, and is cut off by a loud noise. She jumps in her seat and her eyes widen, and the voice on the other end speaks again. Pidge presses a finger to her lips, and angles the phone upwards, tapping the speaker button.

“— _and you’ll have till the afternoon to do so,”_ The voice is smooth and deep, refined in an oddly sinister way and in the distance, Shiro can make out a familiar female voice letting out a steady stream of swears. “ _And if you don’t bring me Shiro, if you try any tricks, it’ll be_ extremely _easy for me to mow you down_.”

The call ends abruptly, the little tone echoing through the dining room.

“They have Allura and Lance,” Pidge says, and turns to Shiro, eyes wide. “They want you back.”  
  
 

* * *

 

The ride out is tense, and Shiro feels a deep sense of unease as they tear down the highway. Keith’s in the passenger seat, looking quiet but ferocious, and Sendak’s handcuffed in the backseat of Lance’s blue Firebird. Coran’s there too, and Hunk and Pidge are on standby at a distance in Hunk’s truck. They’ve hung back by ten minutes and have taken it off-road, planning to loop around the intersection through the dust and the brushes.

They don’t have to drive out far; the man on the other end of the line had told them to meet at an intersection two hours out west. He had told Pidge he wanted Shiro— they’ve brought Sendak as an offering instead, and Sendak’s been laughing through the entire time. Hunk had suggested for Shiro to hang back for safekeeping, but Shiro had insisted on coming along. They didn’t know what kind of numbers they would face, what kind of people they would face. And Shiro still has the keys to the Mustang, so if no one would take him, he’d go on his own.

The man on the phone has offered no other details, other than he has Allura, Lance, and the two vehicles they had been driving. He’s told Pidge that he thinks he’ll keep the pickup truck and the jeep, but he’s willing to give Allura and Lance back in exchange for Shiro. They’re going to bring Sendak out instead and force his hand in giving the two back. Sendak had led an impressive fleet of people in the last standoff, and the group’s come to a general consensus that he’s worth something to the organization that sent him after them. It’s their main plan, hopefully a good one, and he’s got a nice strip of duct tape over his mouth from preventing him from indicating otherwise.

The drive both stretches out into eternity, and goes by too fast. Everyone’s armed, including Shiro; he’s got his Beretta back from Pidge, thoroughly cleaned and fully loaded. It’s sitting in a concealed holster, and his heart settles with the weight of it, with the weight of the situation.

Shiro’s driving, part because he’s fast and part because they might need to make a quick escape, and Keith’s going to be the one pulling Sendak out as an offering. Their rough backup plan is using Lance’s car as a battering ram, with Hunk and Pidge swooping in on Hunk’s truck from the side. Speeding down the road comes as second nature to Shiro, but he doesn’t know if the rest will as well. The man’s given no name, just a location and a text with a picture of Allura and Lance bound and livid.

They approach the intersection, and it’s not hard to see where exactly they’re being waited on. There’s a gas station on the empty intersection with it’s sign torn out and five SUVs lined in a circle in the lot. When Shiro pulls in, Keith doesn’t wait for the car to stop rolling before he’s opening the door and hopping out. Shiro comes to a stop thirty feet in front of where a tall dark man stands, clad in black with hair as blinding white as Allura’s. Around twenty people surround him, and Lance and Allura are nowhere to be seen. Keith takes a spot halfway in between Shiro and the man. Pidge has rigged up small bugs on everyone, and Shiro changes the radio dial on the car to the private channel, just in time to pick up the conversation.

“Hello Keith,” The man’s voice is as deep and polished in person as it was over the phone. It stands in strong contrast to the scratched, guttural tone of Sendak’s and in some ways, was more foreboding. “Nice to finally meet you.”

“How do you know me?” Keith asks, voice rough as he approaches, and the man simply chuckles in response. “Where are they?”

“Bring them out,” the man says, and Sendak makes a muffled sound behind them. Shiro watches as in the distance, a burly woman hops out of one of the SUVs. She opens the backdoor, and drags out both Allura and Lance in an impressive show of strength. Their wrists are tied behind their backs, and she uses that to push them towards where the man’s standing and drop them in front of his feet. Neither of them look terrified— both of them look positively furious.

“Your friends are charming,” the man drawls, and looks over Keith’s shoulder. “Excellent houseguests, really. _So_ easy to capture.”

“How’d you get them?” Keith steps forward, and the burly woman steps in front of the man. The man clicks his teeth, and the woman freezes before stepping back, still keeping an eye on Keith.

“That’s a lot of questions,” the man drawls, pushing up the sleeves to his leather jacket. “But I’m a man of little time. You know what you owe me.”

Keith raises a hand, and the back door of the car creaks open as Coran hauls a grunting Sendak out. He pulls him by the wrist towards where the man’s standing, and Sendak barely struggles as he’s pushed besides Keith.

“I think you might want him back instead,” Keith says, his voice crackling slightly over the radio. He bends down and rips off the duct tape from Sendak’s mouth as the man raises a thin eyebrow.

“Lotor,” Sendak spits out, and the man raises an eyebrow.

“Sendak,” he replies, sounding the slightest bit surprised. “I was wondering where you went.”

“We’re not giving you Shiro,” Keith says firmly. “But you can have him back, if you hand over ours.”

Lotor narrows his eyes, glancing between Sendak and Keith and looks like he’s at an impasse for a moment. Everyone’s tensed, ready.

“Sendak’s important to us,” Lotor says finally, face falling into a neutral expression again. “He’s my mother’s favourite.”

“You can have him back,” Keith says, and grabs Sendak by the nape of his neck. He pushes him down onto his knees, and Shiro can hear a muttered _fuck you_ over the comms from Sendak. “Give us our friends.”

“Alright,” Lotor nods slowly, and raises one hand up. With the other, he reaches for Allura, pulling her up by the rope around her wrists. The two of them move forward, and Keith takes a step back from Sendak. It’s a smart move because before anyone can register what’s happening, Lotor digs his hand into his jacket and whips out semi-automatic. He levels it at Sendak’s head and Sendak manages a quick “Son of a bitch-” before Lotor pulls the trigger, sending Sendak crumpling backwards into a heap.

“Find a better bargaining chip,” Lotor says, bringing the gun to Allura’s temple. She struggles against him but he’s got her in a firm hold and keeps her steady as she squirms. “Give me Shiro, or you can say goodbye to your friends.”

“Give them back,” Keith says firmly, his voice barely wavering. “You’re going to regret it otherwise.”

“Oh, _you’re_ going to regret it,” Lotor says, and Allura tries to kick out at him. He’s completely unaffected as he grins at Keith. “It’s in your best interests to hand your man over. You’re a lot better off playing with me instead of my mother.”

“Fuck you,” Keith spits, and Lotor shrugs.

“So be it,” Lotor says, and a loud _BANG_ echoes through the parking lot. It’s Shiro’s knee jerk reaction to throw the car door open and jump out, and he realizes it’s not Lotor who pulled the trigger. Lotor looks over his shoulder just as one of his companions drops to their knees, falling face first onto the gravel. Behind them stands a tall man with his gun raised and that’s the last moment of calm before all hell breaks loose.

The man turns his gun towards Lotor, and he drops off Allura to the side in favour of attempting to shoot the man. Another one of his men leap from his side, and jumps onto Lotor, redirecting the fire of his gun. Keith uses the momentary distraction to get to  Allura while Coran dashes towards Lance while Lotor’s colleagues realize that there are traitors among them.

Out of the corner of his eye, Shiro can see one of Lotor’s henchmen do a mad dash towards Keith. Immediately, Shiro jumps to action, yelling out Keith’s name and charging towards the other man. Shiro manages to tackle him to the ground, and the burlier man wrestles with him, tries to squirm out of Shiro’s grip. Shiro puts him in an arm bar and grabs the man's gun and uses it to crack the man across the head _hard_ , sending him out like a light. He feels hands on his shoulders and Keith’s yanking him up just as more of Lotor’s people swarm in on them.

One of them raises a gun towards Keith, and Shiro swings forward,grabbing their wrist and buckling back till it cracks. There’s a quiet moment where the person inhales sharply, pain too sudden, and then there’s a soft _shwick_ as Keith opens a switch blade and immediately launches forward, digging it into the person’s gut.

It’s chaos from there, and Shiro moves purely on muscle memory, letting his body remember what his brain can’t. He doesn’t know if it’s something he learned when he was a pilot or something he learned when he was fighting in a dirty warehouse, but he knows the instinct comes quicker to him than breathing. It’s brutal; it doesn’t take much for him to use the weight of his prosthetic to bludgeon one person over the head, before grabbing them and shoving them into one of their friends. Beside him, Keith’s methodically lashing out at the two other people that charged them, and Shiro can hear each moment metal pierces through flesh.

Lotor makes a beeline for them, shoving through two of his men fighting each other. Shiro has no idea what inspired this sudden frantic rebellion, but he's not about to question it. Lotor levels a gun at Keith and pulls the trigger, but Shiro’s fast, leaping in front of Keith and throwing up his prosthetic arm with unknown precision as Lotor unloads. There’s a loud _ping_ as each bullet hits his arm and sends a shockwave through his body, but the lead crumples and falls to the ground. Shiro’s eyes widen as he flips his forearm to see that there isn’t a single mark on him.

“We gave you a gift,” Lotor calls through the chaos, undeterred. “Come back to us. We'll make it better.”

He cuts a tall and intimidating figure as he moves towards them through the dust of the skirmish; Lotor raises his hands and drops his gun. Kicking it off to the side as he closes the distance. Shiro keeps a hand over his own concealed holster as Lotor approaches him, side-stepping an unconscious figure. The woman who stood beside him before tries to join him, but he shakes his head, leaving her behind.

“It doesn't have to be painful, Shiro,” he says as he approaches, and Shiro curls at the way his words sound. “You can bring him too.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Shiro lashes out, and Lotor tries to block him off with a forearm but Shiro’s quicker, more feral and manages to clock him in the jaw before jamming his foot down on Lotor’s knee with all his force. Lotor grunts as he falls and is quick to try and take Shiro with him, but Keith grabs Shiro by his collar and yanks him back before he goes down.

There’s a loud series of honks, and a yellow pickup truck barrels into the parking lot from the dry field on the side. It narrowly skims one of the SUVs before circling to a stop beside Shiro's car, knocking over one of Lotor’s people on its way. Coran’s managed to get Allura free of her ties, and they’re hauling Lance towards the car. Shiro’s about to grab Keith and make a run for it as well when he’s bodychecked to the side, thrown to the ground.

It’s the woman who had taken Allura and Lance out of the car; she’s in the space Shiro previously occupied, and  Shiro tries to leap up to bring her down. He’s brought down by an arm that snakes around his neck and pulls, squeezing hard and unyielding. Shiro sputters and squirms as he hears Lotor behind him mutter something about ungrateful bastards, but it’s soon drowned out by the sickening sound of a fist hitting flesh. Keith drops to his knees,  and Shiro’s pinned down as the woman grabs Keith by the collar and punches him again across the face, one, twice, again, _again_.

It fills Shiro with some kind of indiscernible rage and inhuman strength. He roars as he grabs Lotor’s arm with his prosthetic, and even though Lotor’s got his weight grounded like a pillar, Shiro manages to wrench it off hard enough that Lotor lets out a yell. They wrestle for a moment but Shiro gets the upper hand, manages to roll on top and grab Lotor by the lapels of his leather jacket before he’s lifting him up and slamming him down into the pavement.

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Shiro grits out as he slams Lotor down again, and Lotor groans as his eyes drift close. Shiro doesn’t wait before jumping to his feet and redirecting his attention towards the woman who’s throwing Keith’s body onto the ground and delivering one kick after the other. He unholsters his gun and takes aim, but before Shiro can do anything, something hits the woman in the leg. She swears loudly as she falls, and the man who had fired the first shot is running over. Coran’s hot on his tracks right behind him, gesturing wildly.

“Get him to a hospital,” the man shouts, and Shiro balks at how familiar the voice sounds. “Leave Zethrid and Lotor with me.”

It almost stops him dead in his tracks. The woman - _Zethrid_ \- tries to get up, but the man subdues her, shoving her back onto the ground again.

“You’re—” he starts, but his eyes drop to where Keith’s laying, blood trickling from the bridge of his nose. That takes priority in his brain immediately, and Shiro drops down. He slides one arm underneath Keith’s neck and the other underneath his upper body, while Coran grabs his legs. Keith’s conscious but out of it, and he tilts to look up at Shiro.

“Did we get them?” He rasps, and Shiro nods, helpless to say anything. He knows Keith probably shouldn’t be moved, but they can’t call an EMT to a gas station brawl so he’s as delicate with him as possible, despite the adrenaline rush.

“Easy now,” Coran says. “Let’s get him into Lance’s car.”

“The others—” Shiro says as they start to carefully and quickly haul Keith up and towards the Firebird. “Is that man with the Blades?”

“They’re okay,” Coran says, shifting Keith’s legs under one arm as he uses the other to reach for the door of the car. He throws it open and starts to crawl into the back seat with Keith. Shiro follows, refusing to set Keith’s head down yet. “And yes, the Blades are here. Three of them were implanted into Lotor’s team. Do you think you can take off his jacket?”

He can, and he does carefully, Keith groaning as he does so, Shiro murmuring that _it’ll be alright, stay with me, does it hurt, let me take it, it’ll be alright_. He folds it into a pillow and props Keith’s head onto it, and Keith makes another noise.

“‘S fine,” Keith slurs, spitting up a little blood. Shiro hopes it’s from where his lip’s gotten split and nothing else. “Let’s go home, Shiro.”

“Don’t worry about the others,” Coran says, more to Keith than to Shiro. “Hold onto him okay? I’m going to drive.”

 

* * *

 

Shiro’s never been in a chaotic state like this before. Not in whatever memory he has, anyways.

Coran drives like a mad man, swerving past lazy traffic as they make it to the nearest hospital. Pulling out of the parking lot, one of Lotor’s people had tried to jump on the hood, but Coran had hit the pedal like a bludgeon with his foot. The act had torn the bumper off and left a crack in the windshield, but it’s the least of Shiro’s concerns.

It still takes an excruciating hour to get there, and Shiro keeps Keith secure the entire time as Keith drifts in and out. They manage to haul Keith out of the back of the car and onto a stretcher, and Shiro and Coran run down the hallway with the workers at they wheel Keith to one of the rooms in the crowded ER. Shiro tries to swallow down any fear he has at seeing Keith bloodied and battered on the bed with an oxygen mask over his face, and barely manages to give the triaging medic Keith’s name.

“I need his last name too,” she says, and Shiro gives a panicked look at Coran while Keith lolls his head on the bed. “And any health insurance information.”

“I’ll fill that out,” Coran gestures towards the clipboard, and the medic hands it over as three of her colleagues surround Keith. They block Shiro’s view, and Shiro tries to crane his head as they start rattling off about Keith’s vitals. They say something about morphine, and a nurse is quickly tapping a needle as another talks to Keith. He nods in response to a question Shiro can’t make out, and it takes thirty seconds till his eyes are rolling, whites showing before they close completely.

“Sir,” The woman says, raising her arm to urge Shiro to move back. “I know this is stressful, but I’m going to need you to step back.”

Shiro opens his mouth, but Coran presses one hand against Shiro’s chest as he offers out the clipboard with the other.

“We need to get out of their way,” Coran says, and starts to urge Shiro to one of the side walls of the room. Two more medics come through the curtains.

Shiro stands and watches in a daze, Coran’s voice is distant as he explains to the medics what happened. He says that they were out for the night when Keith got jumped, that they were with him but across the street, that they got there too late. Shiro can’t bring himself to speak, just to stand to attention, grunting in support of the lie and seeing if there’s anything that needs to be done. One of the doctors asks if it’s okay if they step out, and Coran’s tugging Shiro out before he can say anything.

Shiro runs a hand through his hair and stares as the curtain to the room gets drawn by the medics. He wants to go in again, wants to see Keith, but Coran still has a deceptively strong grip on his elbow.

“We’re better out here,” Coran says. “He’ll be fine.”

He feels cloth getting pressed into his hand, and finally notices Coran shoving Keith’s jacket into his arms. Shiro holds onto it immediately, and watches as the curtains part again to let in a nurse wheeling a portable X-Ray machine. Coran pulls them to a pillar across the room, so that Shiro can keep an eye on it without getting in the way of any new patients coming in.

The wait feels like an eternity. Shiro feels useless as he stands, but everytime he looks over to Coran, the man has a determined set to his jaw and a laser focus on the curtains in front of him. Shiro watches as another patient gets wheeled in, an older man that’s arched off the stretcher  with his fingers clawing the sheets, and sends a quick prayer to whoever’s listening that Keith’s okay.

It takes an excruciating forty minutes before Shiro and Coran get the okay to go see Keith. They’re still running tests on him, but they’ve cleared him of anything immediately critical at the moment and he doesn’t need oxygen, so a nurse comes out to tell them that they’ve got a few minutes to talk with him if they want. She lets them know too that a police officer will be coming by to take a statement, and Coran tells Shiro to go in without him.

They’ve cleaned Keith up partially. His shirt has been cut open, revealing large angry bruising across his sides, and there’s a clean set of stitches crawling up his forearm. In the stark fluorescence of the hospital light, Shiro can see the black eye that’s formed under Keith’s right eye, as well as the large scrape on his swollen cheek.

“Keith,” Shiro breathes, approaching his prone form. The monitor’s beeping steadily in the background as Keith groans, eyes still closed. He mutters something under his breath, and Shiro doesn’t know if he should sit or stand or say something. He settles for hovering till Keith finally blinks awake, head rolling on his bed like he’s not fully in control yet.

“Where?” Keith slurs, blinking hard. “Where ‘m I?”

“Keith,” Shiro says his name a louder this time, and leans down a little. “Keith, we’re in the hospital. You’re okay.”

He doesn’t know that for sure yet, but the nurse had told him that Keith was definitely in stable condition. They still want to do a CT scan, but they’re not worried. Not yet, anyways.

“Shiro,” Keith’s eyes widen, and Shiro can hear the uptick in his heart monitor. “Shiro, Shiro, you’re alive.”

“Yeah,” Shiro says, and Keith reaches out to touch his face. “Yeah I am. You saved me.”

“You didn’t die,” Keith’s hand slides groggily to cup Shiro’s face, and his eyes fall to half-mast “Am I dreaming?”

“No,” Shiro moves to grasp onto Keith’s wrist, but can’t bring himself to remove Keith’s hand. He holds on tighter instead. “I’m here, Keith.”

Keith’s eyes widen, and his monitor starts beeping louder as he jolts up in his bed, sending Shiro reeling. Shiro tries to press him down with a hand, but Keith’s strong, too strong, and he grabs Shiro’s face with both his hands.

“I've almost found you,” Keith says, and there’s an unevenness to his voice that sends a chill down Shiro’s spine. “I saw your plane in the warehouse, Shiro, I've almost found you. I'm so close, I swear I’ll find you.”

“I’m right here,” Shiro repeats, but Keith gets a frantic look in his eye and he grips tighter. “You found me, Keith.”

“No, no,” Keith says, chants and his eyes are glassed over in an unnerving way. “No, I’m dreaming again. I’m dreaming again. I’m dreaming again-”

He’s cut off by the sound of an orderly entering the room again with one of the doctors. Shiro’s heart is thundering in his ears, drowning out the sound of the monitor beeping rapidly. Keith puts up no resistance as they pry his hands off gently; instead, he looks at Shiro with a haunted expression as they press him back into the bed to do their checks on him. The doctor starts speaking, and Shiro thinks it might be to him, but all he can concentrate on is the way Keith’s eyes drift close as they administer another round of painkillers to him.

Coran finds him outside of the room again, staring at the drawn curtain like it’ll give him some answers.  Coran’s got a look on his face that says that he’s tentative about what he’s about to tell Shiro, and Shiro steels himself for whatever bad news Coran wants to deliver.

“They won’t let people stay overnight if they’re not  a spouse or family,” Coran says in a matter-of-fact manner, and reaches for the jacket Shiro’s holding. “So I can’t stay here to watch over Keith. Not directly in his room anyways.”

Shiro’s about to ask what Coran wants him to do, but Coran’s rooting around in Keith’s pockets with concentration. Shiro sees the moment Coran finds what he’s looking for, because Coran closes his eyes and lets out a little sigh as speaks.

“You’ll stay though,” Coran says, drawing something out of the jacket. “You need to keep an eye on him, okay? They said he’ll be fine, but you should stay with him. This way, both of you can be safe for the night. Kolivan said he’s going to send people to help us keep watch from the outside.”

“Kolivan?” Shiro asks, watching Coran.

“I was on the phone with him while you were in there,” Coran nods. “Him and the Blades are helping the team get back to the house. They’ve picked up Lotor and his lovely lady friend, but they said they want a chance to talk to them too.”

“Will they let me stay here?” Shiro asks, and there’s a soft _clink_ of metal against metal as Coran holds up a chain. Shiro reaches for it, and Coran drops it into his open palm. “What’s this?”

“Show this to them,” Coran says, and the chain pools in Shiro’s hand. “And show them the one you’ve got too.”

Shiro frowns, and looks at the chain. On it are attached a dog tag and two silver bands. Shiro sifts out a dog tag, and holds it up to the hospital light, trying to read the weathered engraving.

 

SHIROGANE,  
KEITH  
525-45-5532 AF  
AB POS  
NO PREFERENCE

 

Shiro stares blankly at the tag, blinking a few times to make sure he’s read right.

“That’s my last name,” he says faintly, and Coran nods.

“And those are your rings,” he says, tipping his chin towards where the rings hang limply off the chain. Shiro picks them up, and sees the worn _K.S, T.S_ engraved on the inside of both of them. “Keep it safe. He’s going to get mad if you lose it.”

“We’re—” Shiro’s at an utter loss of words. The name engraved on the tags bores a hole into his brain, and his world comes to a grinding halt. He tries to speak, but barely any sound makes it out.

“Spouses are allowed to stay overnight,” Coran says, placing a hand on Shiro’s shoulder. “You’re going to use these to prove it.”

“We’re married,” Shiro says in lieu of a reply, his chest too tight for coherent thought. Coran nods again, gives him a sympathetic look.

“It’s a lot, I know,” Coran says gently. “But you need to be there for him right now. No matter what you’re feeling right now, you need to be there for Keith.”

A million questions rip through Shiro’s head like a bullet. Most of them have to do with wanting to know why Keith would keep something this big a secret, and how everyone managed to keep it from Shiro. But he sees the look Coran is giving him, and closes his fist over the chain. His world’s been spinning off its axis for a little while now, but Shiro feels moved by significant degrees. It doesn’t matter right now though, because Keith’s injured and they’re in the emergency room and Shiro can’t afford to spiral.

He gives Coran a firm nod, and Coran’s unsurety with his own decision is written across his face, clear as day.

 

* * *

  

Keith will be okay, but he’ll need to stay overnight for observation. After a few words with Coran, they’ve placed him in a private room. He’s got a black eye, a swollen face with a split lip, heavy bruising and a few welts.But he’s lucky enough to only need a few stitches and a brace for a sprained wrist, and Shiro’s been lucky that they let spouses stay overnight.

Shiro runs a thumb over the weathered tags, where his last name is engraved beside Keith’s first. The rings hang limp on the other end of the chain, the plain silver bands swinging under the hospital light and clinking together lightly. He’s waiting outside of Keith’s room for Coran, who’s gone to get food for Shiro and a change of clothes before he leaves for the night. Shiro’s insisted that he’ll be fine but Coran has refused to take no for answer.

It makes sense that Keith and him were married.

Are married.

Keith’s not explicitly indicated that they were ever romantically intertwined, but it’s clear he’s put so much of himself into holding onto Shiro, more than the others have. Shiro wonders why Keith hadn’t told him, but knows too that in some ways, he’s not the man that Keith had married. He doesn’t have the memories, doesn’t have the shared experience. All he has is some innate magnetic pull towards Keith, one that’s been drawing him in since he picked him up off the side of the road. Shiro doesn’t know if that makes him enough.

Shiro thinks back to the drugged look of relief followed by surprise crossed Keith’s face when he had seen Shiro in the emergency room. Keith thought that Shiro - his Shiro - had come back to him in a fever dream, one that sounds like it had been recurring while Shiro had been missing.

He tries to put himself in Keith’s shoes, tries to think what he would do if he was faced with the man he loved having no memories of him. It’s hard to do, and it’s a stark reminder that the history between them has been erased by whatever took Shiro’s memory. But Shiro knows there’s something low in him, burning for Keith. Has been, through the violence and the distrust and the quiet hours of the night. He doesn’t know if that’s enough for Keith— doesn’t know if _he’s_ enough for Keith.

Shiro hears approaching footsteps, and quickly coils up the chain and shoves it in his pocket. Coran gives him a smile as he comes over, shaking a greasy bag in Shiro’s direction. The faint smell of fried oil emanates from it, and Shiro takes it gingerly and opens it. There’s a neatly wrapped burger and a carton of fries that suspiciously looks a little less full than it should be.

“Thanks,” Shiro tips his chin, and Coran pats him on the shoulder as he sits down, handing him another bag with a fresh white shirt in it.

“So they’re going to let you stay overnight for sure?” Coran asks, and Shiro nods, pulling out the shirt. It’s a touristy one, pulled from the local 24/7 gas station, and smells old.

“We should be good,” Shiro says. “I hope so, at least. It’d be nice to have a quiet night.”

“Don’t worry,” Coran nudges Shiro’s side. “The Blades said they’ve stationed three members around the hospital, just incase.”

“Good,” Shiro replies, and folds over the bag of food. He’s not hungry now, but he knows that he’s not far from having all the adrenaline finally wear off. The hallway is empty so gingerly, he peels off his dirt and blood-stained shirt. His sides ache but nothing fierce, and Shiro has to admit that it feels good to slide on something clean, even if it has an ugly neon sunrise on it.

Keith’s battered but safe for now, and all things said and done. The doctor’s said he’s lucky to have escaped with only bruises, cuts, and a chipped molar, that his brain’s not been banged around too bad but they want to make sure nothing changes over twenty four hours. They told this all to Shiro, using the phrase “your husband” over and over again, and Shiro had to make sure he didn’t look like the phrase was new to him over and over again.

“How are you holding up?” Coran asks, and Shiro shrugs. He’s got a dark bruise on his hip the size of his hand, but that’s the worst of it as far as he can see. He’s exhausted as all hell, but he’s going to stay up to check on Keith before he passes out in the visitor’s chair.

Shiro doesn’t know whether or not he should hope that Keith’s awake and lucid; he wants Keith to rest, but he knows he also runs the risk of immediately blurting out a hundred questions to Keith. To quell the need, he tries to turn to Coran.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me that Keith and I were married?” Shiro asks. “Why did he want to hide it?”

Coran drops his hand from where it’s on Shiro’s shoulder, and folds it in with the other on his lap. He maintains his gaze with Shiro, looking at him with a kind sort of sadness.

“He thought it’d influence you,” Coran says, and sighs. “He thought it’d put you under pressure.”

“Pressure for what?” Shiro raises his eyebrows, and Coran shakes his head.

“Pressure to stay even if you didn’t want to,” He replies in an honest manner.  “Pressure to uphold a relationship you didn’t remember.”

“I…” Shiro presses his lips together. If he removes himself from the situation, it _does_ make some sort of sense. He tries to think whether being told from the beginning would have made him trust Keith more and Shiro can’t quite find a correct answer to it. “Yeah, I get that.”

“He cares about your safety,” Coran raises a hand and taps it against Shiro’s temple. “Both physically and up here. He didn’t want you to think you were obligated to feel a certain type of way for him.”

“I don’t,” Shiro says firmly, shaking his head.  “I don’t feel obligated. It hasn’t changed how I felt.”

“And how _do_ you feel?” Coran asks, leaning in. Shiro stares down at his greasy takeout bag and closes his eyes, sighing.

“That he’s someone I trust,” Shiro replies honestly, fiddling with the paper. “Someone I like. It feels instinctual. It’s felt instinctual since I met him.”

It feels like a haunting ache, knowing that he’s lost Keith by virtue of not knowing he was with him to begin with. It’s like something’s carved out part of him and thrown it away, and he’s grasping around blind, looking for it without knowing what it truly was.

“He’ll need to hear that,” Coran says gently. “If you want to tell him that you know about your shared past.”

“I will,” Shiro replies, and wrinkles his nose.  “He’s very self-punishing.”

Coran laughs at that, and leans back in his chair. Shiro looks at him, and there’s a fond look across Coran’s face. Coran catches him looking, and smiles in return.

“He always thinks he should be doing more than he already is,” Coran says. “He keeps thinking he’s gone wrong somewhere.”

“Why?” Shiro’s brow furrows at that; in the past few days, he can’t remember Keith getting more than one night’s worth of decent sleep. “He’s saved me so many times.”

“He’s young,” Coran says, and there’s sadness that tinges his voice this time. Coran looks at Shiro, but his gaze grows distant for a fleeting moment. Coran blinks, shakes his head, and throws a casual arm around Shiro’s shoulders. “So are you. All of you are. Even if you tend to forget it, I remember it.”

Coran’s face is kind, and Shiro feels his own shoulders slumping in his presence. His head feels heavy all of a sudden, and Coran rubs his shoulder before rotating in his seat. Shiro turns to follow, and finds himself enveloped in a strong, firm hug. Coran smells like sweat, diner grease, and pine, and there’s something paternal and comforting in the way he hugs Shiro. Now that it’s happening, it feels strongly like something Shiro hasn’t been able to experience in a while, and he wraps an arm around Coran.

“I don’t know what to do,” Shiro says into the crook of Coran’s shoulder. “I don’t know what I’m worth if I don’t remember who I am.”

“That’s okay,” Coran says, and Shiro can feel warmth prick the corner of his eyes as Coran rubs his back in a soothing manner. “You’re here, and you’re with us. That’s what matters to us. That’s all that matters to Keith, too.”

Shiro draws back, and swipes at his eyes with the back of his palms. Coran keeps one arm around him till Shiro’s swallowed back whatever else threatened to surface.

 

* * *

 

“ _Shiro_.”

It’s faint, and it barely drags Shiro to the edge of consciousness.

“Shiro?” The voice is a little louder this time, and Shiro slowly blinks awake to it. His eyes feel blurry around the corners, and he rubs them with the heel of his palms as he sits up straighter.

After Coran had left, Shiro had re-entered Keith’s room to find him fast asleep. He ate half the burger that Coran got him and set the rest down underneath the barely comfortable visitor’s chair. Shiro had sat, watching Keith’s sleeping form for a good ten minutes before both physical and emotional exhaustion had overtaken him. It’s been a few hours; the small clock on Keith’s bedside table reads 3:06 A.M, and Shiro can feel the lateness of the night in his bones.

“Keith?” Keith’s got his head turned towards Shiro, face dimly lit in the dark hospital room. The nurse had forgotten to draw the curtains, so the dull white-blue light from the streetlamps outside washes into the room. “Are you okay?”

“I should be asking you that,” Keith rasps, throat clearly dry. Shiro reaches for the glass of water on the bedside table and passes it to Keith, who accepts it gratefully. He manages to drain it in one go and twists in his seat, trying to put the glass back. Shiro takes it from him gently, setting it on the table.

“More?” Shiro asks and Keith shakes his head as he leans back into his hospital bed. He scans the room slowly before he settles back on looking at Shiro. It’s been a short time so none of his bruising has abated, but the swelling in his face seems to have gone down. Shiro wonders if that’s a trick of the light, the medicine, or if Keith genuinely looks less haunted now.

“My head hurts like a bitch,” Keith says, and Shiro lets out a short laugh. “Did we get Allura and Lance back?”

“Yeah,” Shiro nods, and shifts his chair a little closer to Keith’s bed. He rotates his neck, wincing a little at how loud it creaks. “They’re fine, they’ve headed back to the house. We got Lotor too, and one of the women that were with him.”

“We got two of them?” Keith smacks lips before running a tongue over the dry skin. “God, are we running a hotel?”

Shiro snorts, shifts closer. “The painkillers haven’t worn off yet?”

“I’m lucid,” Keith retorts, frowning. “Jesus. A man tries to be funny.”

“Lucid, huh?” Shiro says, offering a small smile. “You said your head hurt, right? Should I call a nurse?”

“No,” Keith says almost immediately and winces. “Not yet. I want to stay like this for a moment.”

“Alright,” Shiro replies, and leans back in his chair. Keith closes his eyes and exhales loudly, and Shiro takes the moment to observe him.

Shiro understands why Keith would have wanted to hide their relationship from him. But even with the news, nothing’s changed for Shiro. He hasn’t felt compelled towards anything; he feels a little less lost. Their past relationship is just justification for the way Shiro feels now— if they had been married, Shiro had no doubt that some small corner of his brain had managed to hold onto at least fragments of the memory. It’s an explanation, if anything.

“Thank you,” Keith says, and it’s so quiet that Shiro almost misses it. “For saving me.”

“You’re the one who saved me,” Shiro replies, and reaches out. He thinks he’s about to take Keith’s hand, but decides to abort halfway, gripping onto the bed railing instead. Keith catches the movement, and he gives a half-grin.

“I keep fucking up,” Keith chuckles weakly, and this time Shiro does reach for him. He closes his hand around Keith’s wrist, and Keith’s eyes drift towards the contact. They widen a little, before he looks up at Shiro.

“You aren’t fucking up,” Shiro says firmly, squeezing Keith’s wrist. “I’ve never seen someone so resistant to giving up.”

“I was going to,” Keith says, and Shiro narrows his eyes. “Before I found you, right before we found Kolivan and his people. I had a moment where I thought that none of this was true, that I—  that I was just making it up to cope.”

Shiro slides his hand down, picking up Keith’s palm. He doesn’t intertwine their fingers but he thumbs over Keith’s knuckles.

“I wish I could remember,” Shiro says, more to himself than Keith. “I wish I could remember anything about who I was in the past.”

Keith squeezes Shiro’s hand. It’s weak and tired, but Shiro takes it for what it is.

“It’s okay if you don’t,” Keith says. “You still have a life ahead of you. I’ll make sure of it.”

Shiro meets Keith’s gaze, and for a moment, the way Keith looks at him clenches at his heart. It hurts Shiro to know that he still doesn’t remember his past— it still hurts that he doesn’t know if it’s something he can ever do. But he looks at Keith, looks at the bruising around his neck and the stitches on his forearm, and has no doubt that the man Shiro was had wanted to marry him. Shiro’s struck with a longing to remember, just to make it better for Keith, just so that he could find out first hand what kind of love had inspired Keith to be so fiercely protective of Shiro.

“You should get some rest,” Keith asks, looking away from Shiro. “You don’t need to be here.”

The light spilling in from the streetlights lines Keith’s face, the glow making him look infinitely softer. Shiro looks at Keith, with the gauze taped to his cheek, with inky black hair spilling over his eyes and surrounding him on his pillow like a halo, with an edge of determination that never quite leaves his eyes.

“I do,” Shiro replies, equally quiet and reaches  forward. “It’s the least I can do.”

Gently, he brushes Keith’s bangs off his forehead, letting his fingers linger as they tuck a stray strand behind Keith’s ear. Keith tilts his head into the touch, and Shiro finds himself getting drawn closer and closer till he’s hovering off his chair.  Even in the dim light Shiro can see the detail of Keith’s eyelashes, the soft smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose that disappear into the bruising on his face.

Shiro doesn’t know if it’s the right time or place, but he’s weak to whatever draws him to Keith. He was before he found out what they were and Shiro supposes that some things are innate and beyond simple memory. Keith’s not stopped him yet; he sighs instead, the warm air gusting softly over Shiro before the two of them close the distance.

It’s a soft and gentle press against chapped lips; Shiro can taste the faint mint of the hospital toothpaste as he captures Keith’s top lip, careful not to worry the bottom one. The kiss is tentative and short, and Shiro pulls back to look down at Keith.

There’s a light flush in Keith’s cheeks, and he looks up at Shiro with his mouth still parted. Shiro feels the beat of his heart steady, like this is what it's been waiting for to calm down. It quietens whatever part of him asks himself if he’s being selfish.

“Was that okay?” Shiro asks gently, and he’s never seen Keith look so vulnerable in the time that he’s known him. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re not,” Keith says almost immediately, voice distant like he can’t quite believe it.

Whatever signs of worry had made themselves known on Keith’s face seem to have melted away, leaving only a sense of boyish wonder in their wake. Keith reaches up for Shiro, scrapes his fingers through the hair of Shiro’s undercut. He barely needs to apply pressure before Shiro’s leaning down again to fulfill the unspoken request.

This time, Keith moves with him, opening up as Shiro swipes a tongue over the seam of his mouth and presses a kiss against Keith’s bottom lip. Keith makes a sound but doesn’t let Shiro up; instead he tugs him in more. Shiro pushes off his chair completely, leaning over Keith and bracing a hand on each side of his head. He means to pull off, to say something to Keith, but the hand Keith’s got on him slides down to the nape of his neck and pulls him closer. A second one joins it, fisting itself in Shiro’s shirt and tugging and Shiro can feel the relief leak out of his own body.

“What do you want?” Shiro manages to breathe out the words in between a succession of kisses, and Keith pulls again.

“Stay with me,” Keith says, and Shiro is about to tell him that he already is, already has plans to, but Keith tugs a little harder and he gets the hint.

Shiro lets go of Keith, but Keith won’t let go of his shirt. Quickly, Shiro flips down the side railing of the hospital bed before he leans forward again, capturing Keith in another kiss. While he’s still locked onto Keith, Shiro plants a knee on the mattress of the bed and heaves himself up till he’s on the bed, straddling him without dropping any of his weight down. Both of Keith's hands slide down, looping around his waist before drawing up to his shoulders. Shiro can feel the intent and desire behind the action, and at any other time, would be tempted to follow through on it. But this is not the place for it, Keith's not in the state for anything more, so Shiro gently breaks them apart.

“We should sleep,” Shiro says, unable to resist leaning down to peck Keith on the cheek. “We have tomorrow for this.”

“Do we?” Keith breathes, but unloops his arms from around Shiro. He refuses to stop kissing Shiro though, continuously drawing him in like a starving man. Keith kisses like he knows exactly what Shiro likes— Shiro reminds himself that Keith does, and tries to make it as good for Keith. This, Shiro thinks, is where he belongs. He can feel the warmth and sweetness spreading through his body like honey at the touch, but Shiro reminds himself that recovery is priority.

He’s careful with Keith underneath him, but it's still a mess of limbs as Shiro tries to arrange them while Keith insists they remain locked in a kiss. Finally, Shiro manages to squeeze into the side of the bed, with Keith half on top of him as they finally break apart.

“Thank you,” Keith murmurs, and Shiro presses a kiss to the top of Keith's head. Keith tilts his head up, and right before Shiro leans in to meet him one last time, he sees that Keith’s eyes are brimming before he closes them. He presses his lips against Keith's, and presses another soft kiss against Keith's eyelids as he makes a sound.

“Sleep,” Shiro says in return, shifting so that Keith's body is more snug against his. Keith gives a small hum of agreement, body growing more relaxed against Shiro. Shiro watches the long lashes dust over his cheeks, and idly cards his fingers through Keith's hair and gently scritching his scalp as he too closes his eyes.

It feels new, Shiro thinks, but in a way that feels like this is how it’s always meant to be.

It feels right.


	6. Chapter 6

Keith has woken up countless times with his head resting on a broad chest that rises and falls to the rhythm of his own breathing. He’s woken up countless times with an arm slung around his waist, has woken up countless times to the familiar warmth and surety. But he hasn’t done it in a little over year, so when Keith wakes up with his cheek pressed against a solid mass, he startles.

“Easy,” Shiro says from where he’s propped up on the pillows, squeezing the arm he has around Keith. Keith blinks and raises his head to look up at Shiro. In the weak glow of the morning light, Shiro looks softer, younger. For a fleeting moment, things are almost normal. Keith almost sinks into it.

He licks his lips, running his tongue over his bottom lip so that he can speak without rasping. Keith feels it throb from where it had gotten split, and it brings him back to reality. And this time, it doesn’t come with as much dread as before.

The woman had gotten the jump on Keith and had kept wailing on him like it was nothing. Keith had been completely unable to fight back. It had been like getting hit by a car, over and over again till he caved in submission, and he’s surprised he’s made it out with just bruising and a concussion. He doesn’t remember much about what happened after he had been hauled into the car, just remembers the medics and the halo of light above him in the stark blue-gray rooms of the E.R.

“How are you feeling?” Shiro asks, and Keith manages to reply in a scratchy voice.

“Like shit,” he replies, planting a hand on Shiro’s chest. He looks at how his bandaged fingers splay across the ugly neon design of Shiro’s shirt; the familiar sight, the familiar body in the small hospital bed with him affirms that Keith hadn’t been dreaming.

Keith pushes up, wincing as he feels each individual bruise on his body. He hovers above Shiro like this, and Shiro slides a hand down to his hip to support him. A lot of things had passed by like a fever dream yesterday. Yet there was one moment that stood out in stark clarity in Keith’s brain.

Shiro had kissed him.

Without Keith telling him anything, Shiro had kissed him. Without Keith having done anything, Shiro had kissed him. In the moment, Keith had thought it to be too good to be true, and had tried to take as much as he could while he was still allowed to.

Keith looks at Shiro, unsure, and Shiro raises a tentative hand. He cups the side of Keith’s head, thumbing a loose section of hair over his ear. It’s all Keith needs to push forward into Shiro’s arms, ignoring how sore his body feels in favour of pressing his lips against Shiro’s.

Shiro responds with the same level of careful enthusiasm he had the night before. He squeezes the hand on Keith’s hip to temper him, but follows Keith’s lead, softly moving their lips together. Keith knows he must smell and taste like hospital, but Shiro makes no protest as he returns the kiss.

It feels like he’s found Shiro all over again, and Keith has a building sense of being too overwhelmed to know where to go from here. He can feel his throat start to close, the corners of his eyes prickle with heat because he had long resigned himself to thinking he would never experience this again, not even after he had found Shiro.

His body must have tensed up, because Shiro pulls back. Shiro opens his mouth, but Keith drops his gaze. He can feel Shiro thumb a soothing circle into his side before he shifts his hand, sliding it up to press down on Keith’s lower back.  

“The nurse is going to yell at me,” Shiro murmurs, keeping his hand in Keith’s hair. “Last time she did her rounds, she said I better be off by the time she came to do her morning checkup.”

He twines his fingers through it and gently scratches Keith’s scalp, and Keith thinks that maybe this is an elaborate dream after all.  Keith curls his hand in Shiro’s chest, and feels the outline of his dog tags through the cloth of the shirt.

“You kept your tags,” Keith says, and feels the vibrations of Shiro’s affirming hum under his fingers. He looks up again at Shiro, not quite sure what to say, but stops dead in his tracks when he notices something.

Keith’s passed his own chain through his hands like a rosary hundreds of times since Shiro had gone missing. He knows that the beads on the chain he had given Shiro don’t sit as tightly as they do on his. As they do on the chain around Shiro’s neck.

“Shiro,” he says slowly, pushing up as his heart drops into his stomach. “Shiro, what is that?”

“What?” Shiro blinks, and follows the path of Keith’s gaze. “Oh.”

Shiro looks at Keith for a moment like he’s unsure, before hooking a finger through the chain and pulling it out completely. Keith’s fears are confirmed as Shiro tugs out a familiar set of tags. He shakes the necklace, and the rings slide down with a soft _tchink_ to join Keith’s dog tags.

Shiro knows.

“Where-” Keith starts, stops. There’s a lump rapidly rising in his throat again, and this time it’s sour. “Who gave this to you?”

“Coran,” Shiro replies simply, picking up the tags. “That’s how I got to stay overnight and keep an eye on you.”

“You know,” Keith chokes out, and Shiro nods. Keith tries to form words, tries to form an apology, tries to form _something_ because Shiro _knows_ they’re married now, Shiro knows they had something. And it’s the last thing Keith had wanted. His face falls visibly, and Shiro responds in kind with a concerned look.

“Is that okay?” Shiro asks, frowning. Keith can’t give him a definitive answer to it; he wants to say no, that he’s sorry, that he’s sorry that Shiro found out and that Shiro doesn’t owe him anything because of their forgotten past. But Keith remembers the way his heart threatened to stop the first time Shiro kissed him, the first time Shiro had kissed him in over a year, and finds himself at a loss.

“I don’t know,” Keith replies quietly, truthfully. Shiro’s hand drops from where it had twisting a finger through Keith’s hair, but they don’t have time to dwell on it because there’s a sharp knock on the door. Quietly and quickly, Shiro slips out of the bed, taking care not to jostle Keith around too much as the orderly walks in.

Keith gets discharged in the afternoon, getting the all-clear from the doctor. Shiro stays with him the whole time, and Keith can’t stop thinking about how the only reason he’s been allowed to is because he’s married. The doctor talks to both of them at the same time, and tells Shiro to make sure Keith stays out of trouble. It’s painfully reminiscent of their past life, and it makes Keith’s head hurt.

He’s sore but he can walk, and Shiro guides Keith out with a hand against his back. He seems tentative about it at first, but Keith’s exhausted beyond reason and allows it. Keith doesn’t think he blames Coran, not fully anyways because in the heat of the moment, Keith might have done the same. 

Coran meets them at the exit, standing in front of a large black SUV that Keith definitely knows isn’t theirs. He’s standing with a familiar man. He’s tall and stern with a thick grey braid slung over his shoulder, and Keith stands up straighter when he approaches them. He catches a glimpse of his own reflection in the tinted windows of the car, and it feels like a phantom’s looking back at him. The swelling has gone down, but Keith looks disheveled with his unkempt hair and scraped up face.

“Keith,” the tall man says, nodding in his direction. “I’m glad to see you walking.”

“Kolivan,” Keith replies in turn, stepping to the side. Shiro’s hand falls from where it’s planted, and Keith turns to introduce them, trying to keep his voice even. “He’s with the Blades.”

“So you know who I am,” Shiro says, and Kolivan nods. Shiro glances at Keith, and Keith tries to give him as affirming a look as possible.

The drive back to the house is quiet and blissfully uneventful. Coran sits at the front, silent and attentive while Kolivan drives, and Keith sits in the back with Shiro. Shiro’s returned him his jacket, and Keith bundles it up so that he can use it as a pillow against the window of the SUV.

Shiro looks at him, and Keith can see his hand twitch from where it rests on the seat in between them. Keith wants to tell him that he doesn’t have to, that he’s not obligated to do _anything_ just because they are married. Were. Are. It doesn’t matter what Keith thinks or feels; he doesn’t want Shiro to uphold something he doesn’t remember out of duty. And Shiro’s exactly the type of person who would force himself if he thought it was the right thing to do. If he thought there was some debt to be owed, some debt Keith didn’t want to collect on.

It’s not a conversation they can have in the car with the other men listening at any rate, so Keith gives Shiro a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and twists his body away, resting his head on his makeshift pillow and willing himself to go to sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

The others don’t know that the truth has been revealed. That’s the first thing Coran tells Keith and Shiro before they go back inside the house. It brings Keith some relief, because he doesn’t want to field any questions. Shiro looks like it’s something he _does_ want to share with the class, but Keith shakes his head before he’s even asked the question.

Lance and Allura are alright— Allura says they were thrown around a bit with the air of someone who’s used to downplaying just how much pain they were put through. Keith questions this, questions the large bandage over her temple and the two black eyes Lance is sporting that rival his, but she shrugs and tells him that _they_ didn’t end up having to go to a hospital. Lance informs him that despite the fact that they were each thrown in a cell that was no bigger than a washroom stall, the most painful part was just listening to any given member of the Galra speak.

“They’re really into the dramatic,” Lance says, and puts on a stern face, muted by the bruising. “Victory or death. We deliver the fatal blow. We are the killing thrust. Jesus.”

“You look terrible,” Keith says in response, and Lance barks out short laughter.

“We look the same now, asshole,” he replies, thumping Keith on the back as Keith takes a seat beside him on the dining table.

Keith feels a something nudge against his thigh; it’s Shiro’s knee from where he’s taken his own seat on the other side of Keith. He gives Keith a look of concern that Keith doesn’t know how to respond to. So he smiles at Shiro in return, not wanting to elicit any conversation. It’s thwarted when Shiro leans in, whispers an “Are you okay?” to Keith that has Keith’s fingers curling in his palm.

“Yeah,” Keith nods minutely, keeping his eyes ahead as Coran draws up a chair for Kolivan. There’s another man at the table already— the man who had fired the distracting shot in the melee with Lotor. Lotor who, according to Coran, had been moved to one of Kolivan’s facilities. Keith had pulled Coran aside and had asked him why they had Lotor. Before Keith could get up in arms, Coran had explained that Lotor was Zarkon’s son. Holding him in the farm house would for sure be a ticking bomb, and would invite all sorts of trouble, no matter how hard they worked at making sure their location was untraceable.

“This is Ulaz,” Kolivan says, nodding towards his colleague. Ulaz extends a hand out, and it’s not til Keith’s taken it that he realizes that it was directed towards Shiro.

“We’ve spoken,” Keith says anyways, dropping his hand. Shiro takes it next, and Keith sees how tightly he grips it.

“It's good to see you alive,” Ulaz says.

“You’re my father,” Shiro says, and Ulaz nods slowly. “I recognized your voice.”

“He was critical in helping free you from the Galra’s hold,” Kolivan explains as everyone takes their seats. It’s oddly formal, but his presence feels large enough to demand the attention of the room. “Ulaz pretending to be your father was our way of keeping an eye on you.”

“We still have a few people integrated with the Galra,” Ulaz says. “The ones in Lotor’s crew had to fall back, but we still have some spread throughout.”

It makes sense. They can’t keep all their eggs in the same basket. The Galra didn’t either, and even though Ulaz had been closely monitoring Shiro, he too doesn’t know what their final plan for him was. He just knows that the Garrison had been involved for sure. The Galra have claimed they’re making a new line of soldiers that are more efficient, tactical, and capable of withstanding a historic amount of battery. Ulaz details the visits of various colonels and admirals and high-ranking officials; all familiar names, some of whom had offered Keith their gravest condolences upon the news of Shiro's death. Keith tries to not let anger curl around him at the names, so that he can keep paying attention.

The Blades are a loose collection of ex-soldiers that had served under Zarkon to one capacity or another. They’re a veteran’s club on the outside, and largely operate like one. The Galra are tight-lipped about their operations— outside of the Garrison, the Blades are the only ones that have an idea of what’s going on, and have been trying to dismantle their military-funded operations since.

Ulaz had come on as Shiro’s handler three months before his escape. His predecessor had been reassigned and instead of getting them to fight it, the Blades had just sent in Ulaz instead. Zarkon had been his commanding officer years ago before he had been assigned to another base, thus joining in had been easy for him. Sendak had been assigned to Shiro from the start, and that had made carrying out the Blade’s operations harder.

Kolivan speaks predominantly, and Keith can tell he’s being careful with the type of information he’s giving them, and how he’s giving them. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Pidge’s assessing stare, cataloguing every single piece of detail they’re being given.

“I was there when they wiped your memory,” Ulaz says, looking directly at Shiro. Shiro steals a glance at Keith, and Keith presses his lips in a tight line. “They were making modifications to an older device, and thought it’d be fun to cook you a little. They wanted to see how deeply they could ingrain a new identity into you.”

“What do you mean?” Shiro asks, and Ulaz runs a hand through his hair.

“The Galra liked your fighting spirit,” Ulaz says. “They wanted to see if they could push it by making you think you had a significantly more tragic upbringing, or had something different to fight for.”

It had been instrumental in getting Shiro out too. The team of military scientists was led by Honerva, who has been said to have experimented on her own son. Ulaz claims she is made out of no love, just sinister curiosity as to how far she can push the human body.  Ulaz had managed to sneak Shiro into the lab and program new bits of an identity into him, overriding whatever terror the Galra had implanted in Shiro. He had the help of another scientist, one who’s still with the Galra.

He kept Shiro’s name for ease but changed everything else, and by the time someone had realized that Shiro wasn’t responding to their prompts the way they needed him to, Ulaz had sprung him out. No one knew who had done it, but after the skirmish with Lotor, Ulaz has a glaring target on his back. He had called Shiro regularly, posing as his father, so that the hypnosis would hold, only stopping when Shiro had run into Keith.

“Why didn’t the rest of my memories come back then?” Shiro asks, and Keith doesn’t miss the sidelong glance Shiro gives him, nor does he miss the pang of hurt the question elicits.

“For that, you’d have to go back to their facility,” Ulaz says, looking grim. “Nothing I can do outside of it can truly bring them back. They’ve made sure of it.”

“But I have a chance?” Shiro’s voice sounds almost hopeful. Keith tries to pretend it doesn’t, and fails.

“That sounds dangerous,” Keith tries to sound as firm as possible, working past the rasp in his voice. It’s something he knows is immediately unpopular with the table at large, and he stares at the linoleum in front of him. 

“Getting your memory back will be a dangerous task,” Kolivan says, leaving no room for uncertainty. “If it goes wrong, then we all suffer. You need to think about how badly you want it.”

“But if you succeed,” Ulaz says abruptly, and it’s clear that this is something they’ve disagreed on by the look that Kolivan gives him. “It’ll be instrumental in punching a giant hole through the heart of the Galra, at the very least.”

“What do you mean?” Shiro frowns, and Ulaz shrugs off the hand Kolivan places on his shoulder before leaning in.

“We have the resources now,” Ulaz says. “We have enough people. If you successfully re-infiltrate the Galra and get back your memory, it’ll leave an opening for us to bring them down.”

“What, like blow them up?” Lance pipes up, and Ulaz shakes his head. “Kinda sounds like you want to blow them up.”

“Not necessarily,” Ulaz replies. “We can expose the entire operation. If Shiro gets his memory back, it’ll be easier for us to collect evidence. We can go public with the information.”

“And then blow them up?” Lance raises an eyebrow, and for once, Keith’s inclined to agree with him. They’ve heard enough about the Galra now for him to feel that fire, feel enough anger that can only be abated by destruction. Keith can hear the gears turning in everyone’s minds heads right now. More specifically, he can hear Shiro’s resolve unearthing itself for something new.

“We have an in,” Ulaz says. This time, he shifts in his seat, redirecting his words to Pidge. Kolivan looks grave from where he’s sitting. “Your father.”

There’s pin drop silence in the room, and Pidge visibly pauses and blinks. “My father?”

“Samuel Holt was the man who helped me free Shiro,” Ulaz nods along. “The Galra have been coercing him into working for him, and have an even tighter leash on him. They value brilliant minds as much as they value brilliant fighters.”

Keith’s not naive; it doesn’t take a lot for him to come to the conclusion that if Samuel Holt had the knowledge to spring Shiro out, it meant Samuel Holt had been forced to work on Shiro as well, carrying out whatever experiments the Galra had wanted to do on him. Everyone else seems to have come to the same conclusion as well, and out of the corner of his eye, Keith can see Pidge’s eyes brimming.

“Did you see my brother?” she asks in a shaking voice, and Ulaz shakes his head. He doesn’t elaborate, she doesn’t press, but Keith knows they’re on an irreversible path. Pidge has worked just as hard to find the ones she loves as Keith has.

“The facility where they held Shiro is heavily guarded,” Kolivan says. “More So than any other location they have. It’s close to a deathwish. If we reduce our mission to rescuing the Holts-”

“It’s a given,” Hunk says almost immediately, and Lance hums in agreement from beside him. “Rescuing the Holts is a given.”

Kolivan pauses at the interruption, but shakes his head and continues. “If we reduce our mission to rescuing the Holts, it’ll still leave us an opening. Granted, it might not be as big, but it’ll still be as effective-”

“Marginally so,” Ulaz cuts in. “And each endeavor would be equally dangerous. Shiro was their crown jewel, their favourite-”

“And if he goes to get his memory back,” Kolivan says, voice sounding grated. “He’s putting himself in the hands of his captors again. We rescue the Holts first, and go back for Shiro’s memories later.”

“As soon as Samuel Holt goes missing, they’re going to destroy that lab,” Ulaz says bluntly, causing Kolivan to stiffen. “Even with Lotor in our hold, I don’t know how much longer we have. Best would be try to whack it all at once. Get the Holts, get the memories, get the evidence and get out.”

“I want my memories back,” Shiro says firmly. “I don’t care what I have to do to get them. I can’t keep living like this.”

Everyone’s eyes turn to Keith, looking for affirmation. He knows that Pidge wants her family back— he wants to fight tooth and nail to get them back too, as much as she’s been helping him with Shiro. He likes Kolivan’s idea for retrieving the Holts first, and then bringing Shiro’s memories back later.

But there’s the risk of them losing the opportunity to do so. And as much as he wants to keep Shiro safe, tell Shiro it’s okay, that his past doesn’t make him, that he can build himself in whatever shape he wants to, it’s not Keith’s call to make.

So despite every fibre of his being screaming otherwise, Keith asks, “What do we need to do if we do it all at once?”

 

* * *

 

 

While Shiro’s in the shower later in the night, Keith sits on his bed in the room, wondering if he should slip downstairs towards the couch again.

Kolivan and Ulaz have long left, and there’s been tension thrumming throughout the house. They have to go in to the Blades’ temporary base tomorrow to question Lotor; he’s been asking for Keith, and Kolivan wants Keith to extract information out of him.

It’ll make the process of breaking in to the Galra facilities easier, which isn’t saying much, given how dangerous their plan sounds. The Galra seem both effective and brutal in the way they have set up their security. Breaking in will strain them for sure, and that’s if everything goes accordingly. Pidge is dead set on the idea of going public with whatever evidence they collect, and Keith’s praying that they make it out of there alive.

Shiro’s repeatedly said with conviction that he wants his memories back.  He’s hell bent on getting them back, hell bent on springing Samuel and Matt, hell bent on breaking apart the people who broke him apart. Keith respects that, knows that it’s what he would do too. But after Kolivan and Ulaz had left, after Pidge had gone with Hunk and Lance into the garage and Allura and Coran had fallen into a deep conversation, Shiro had off-handedly mentioned that it would be nice to remember the past that he and Keith had shared. It would be nice to remember Keith fully, beyond what they have now.

And Keith— Keith doesn’t know if he’s worth the risk. He values Shiro’s life above all, and hearing that Shiro wants to put himself in grave danger in part so that he can remember their relationship puts a dent in Keith like no other. He doesn’t want to put any distance between himself and Shiro, ever, but Keith feels like he’s walking on eggshells. Keith doesn’t even know how he’s going to begin asking Shiro if what he’s feeling is genuine or based out of duty, and how to determine whether or not Shiro is lying just to appease him.

And Keith knows that without his memories, there’s a real possibility that Shiro won’t reach the same level of love and devotion he had before he went missing. It’s something Shiro is allowed, but if what he feels for Keith now isn’t as permanent as the feelings he had before, it’ll slowly drown Keith.

The washroom door opens, effectively cutting of Keith’s train of thought. Shiro emerges, dressed in loose sweats, wet hair leaving drops down his shirt as he towels it.

“How are you feeling?” Keith asks, watching as Shiro drops the towel on a chair.

“I should be asking you that,” Shiro says dryly, walking towards their beds. He pauses for a moment at the gap in between them, and Keith has a vague idea of what Shiro must be thinking. Shiro takes a seat on the edge of his own bed, facing where Keith’s sitting against the headboard on his, and Keith doesn’t know whether to be relieved or not.

“I’m still sore,” Keith replies truthfully, rolling his right shoulder for emphasis. “But I’m good.”

“Yeah?” Shiro asks. “You sure?”

No, Keith’s not sure. And Shiro picks up on that unsurety, picks up on the small inhale Keith takes, because he folds his hands in his laps before looking Keith directly in the eyes.

“I can tell that it bothers you,” Shiro says quietly, not in an unkind way. “That I know about us now.”

He can’t flip-flop, he can’t be a coward and hide what he’s thinking when he’s promised Shiro the entire truth, regardless of how hard he’s pulled into Shiro’s orbit. Keith knows this. By the way that Shiro is looking at him, Shiro knows this too.

Keith tries to look away, tries to turn his head so he’s facing one of the walls, but can’t bring himself to break Shiro’s gaze. Shiro’s right, and they need to talk about it. Keith at least needs to voice what he’s thinking, but the thought of doing so makes his insides curdle. And in this moment of discomfort, Keith seeks out his old anchor.

“Come here,” Keith says instead, voice still scratched. “Please.”

Keith can’t pinpoint why he has asked that of Shiro, but Shiro listens to him, Shiro slowly rises from his own bed and crosses the three foot space before taking a seat at the edge of Keith’s bed. It’s self-serving to get Shiro in his space again, and Keith sits up straighter.

“Are you sure you want to go back to the facility?” Keith blurts out, far from what he’s supposed to say. Shiro raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t look surprised by this change of topic.

“Yeah,” Shiro replies, nodding slowly. “Yeah, I’m sure. I want to get my memory back.”

“What if they capture you?” Keith asks, and the corner of Shiro’s mouth crooks up just the slightest. “We’re walking right into their hands, what if you-”

“With you there?” Shiro cuts Keith off dryly, shrugging. “From what I can tell, their batting average has dropped since you showed up.”

“Is it worth it though?” Keith prods, despite everything in him telling to just shut _up_.

He opens his mouth, ready to fire further down the similar line of questioning, but Shiro shifts on the bed, shuffling closer to Keith. Keith can see the beads of water glisten against Shiro’s neck in the low lamp light of their room, can see a thin white scar peek out from under Shiro’s ear. It calls for Keith to trace his fingers over it, for Keith to find the rest. Shiro’s not wearing the dog tags anymore; they’re sitting in Keith’s inner jacket pocket again, far away enough to smother their influence.

“As I said, I want to remember everyone,” Shiro says simply, and he shifts a hand off his lap. He curls it into the sheet of Keith’s bed, and gives Keith a determined look. “Including you.”

And that’s the kicker for Keith. No matter what he tells himself, no matter what kind of resolution he makes, Shiro looks at him like he’s dead set on what he wants. Shiro had an unparalleled love for Keith in the past, and now he’s trying to revive it. He’s willing to barge into something dangerous for it and Keith— Keith doesn’t know what to make of it.

All he can focus on right now is how Shiro is looking at him right now, how he’s solid and real and alive and in front of him. For the thousandth time since he’s been reunited with Shiro, Keith reminds himself that this is not just a dream. Keith sits up and shifts forward, moving closer to Shiro. His muscles protest, but he doesn’t listen, instead closing a hand over Shiro’s.

It’s not the most honourable thought but Keith thinks that he might deserve this, even if only for this moment. His body hurts and his heart is heavy and Shiro looks at him like he wants to alleviate it. Keith feels Shiro’s fingers curl underneath his palm before they turn over and enclose Keith’s hand. Shiro squeezes, gives Keith a searching look, and Keith lets go of himself.

“Come here,” he repeats in a hoarse whisper, not quite making eye contact with Shiro. “Please.”

This time, Keith can feel the weight of the kiss sink in as Shiro presses his lips against Keith’s. It’s firm without being demanding; Shiro pushes forward the slightest amount, and Keith reciprocates, snaking a hand up so that he can hold onto Shiro’s bicep. He digs his fingers into muscle just as he parts his mouth in an invitation.

It’s not quite like what they shared at the hospital. There, Shiro had been careful, even when Keith had tried to ask for more. Here, Shiro leans into it and slicks his tongue against Keith’s, maybe understanding that Keith won’t allow himself to cut loose like this again. Not after this. There is intent in the way the two of them move, the way that Keith starts to push forward, the way that Shiro moves himself fully onto the bed before he allows Keith to press him down into the mattress and bracket him with his arms. Keith won’t be able to stop, not unless Shiro stops him or they reach some sort of finish.

It feels instinctual but Keith tries to hold himself back, knows it’s new for Shiro. Knows that for Shiro, they’ve never touched each other, knows that for Shiro, he’s never had Keith give himself up fully to him. It’s a hard task with the way Shiro’s hand skims his back, pressing into the ridges of his spine gently over his shirt, like he’s contemplating what to do with Keith as they kiss. He is, probably, but Keith has to remind himself it’s not in the same.

A hand presses into the small of Keith’s back and obediently, he lays down across the expanse of Shiro’s front. Shiro shifts a thigh up and wedges it between Keith’s legs as he breaks off their kiss, and holds Keith by the nape of his neck as he looks at him.

Shiro’s got a faint flush across his cheeks, and his eyes have gone completely dark as they gaze up at Keith, silent and assessing. He’s been looked at like this before, and Keith can’t help but roll back onto Shiro’s thigh, fulfilling an unspoken command.

Shiro leans up so he can kiss at Keith’s neck, leaving a wet and wanting trail from his jaw to his collarbone. He murmurs Keith’s name against his skin and Keith rocks back again, this time pressing forward against Shiro on the uptick. He only has to repeat it a few more times till they’re both hard through their sweatpants, and when Shiro grabs his hip with his hand to help, Keith’s lost all functional thought.

It’s selfish but Keith wants it so bad that it threatens to eat him from the inside out. He’s ached for this moment, ached for this touch again in the quiet of the night for more than an eternity. He’s ached for Shiro to put his hands on Keith, to push his shirt up and rub circles into his back as they kiss. They’re too beat up to take off any of their clothes, but Keith’s grateful for the barrier. He thinks he might lose it completely if they press together, skin-on-skin. He stops thinking about it as Shiro tilts hips up, adding friction that makes Keith’s breath hitch.

“Is this okay?” Shiro asks, voice rough and low, hauntingly familiar in its caring tone.

“Yeah,” Keith whispers in return, licking his lips and dipping his head down so that he has a chance to kiss Shiro along where his jaw meets his neck. Keith applies just the right amount of suction to make Shiro sharply exhale and grip onto Keith tighter.

They end up with Keith fully in Shiro’s lap as Shiro sits up against the headboard of the bed, one arm gently encircling Keith as he peppers kisses along his collar bone. The other one is currently picking at the waistband of Keith’s pants, waiting for permission. Keith’s got both his hands up Shiro’s sleeping shirt, trying to absorb as much in as possible. He trails one down the centre of Shiro’s torso till he reaches the curve of his pants and palms at Shiro.

“Jesus, Keith,” Shiro half-groans and when Keith cants forward with his hips, Shiro’s hand slips past the elastic.

His hand is rough and large and feels so, _so_ good against Keith. Shiro circles and tugs and uses his other hand to push Keith’s sweatpants down just enough to spring him free. Keith in like grabs at Shiro’s waistband, pulling till he’s exposed too, and goes dizzy at the sight. Keith wills himself to not drift out of his body and out of this moment, to not be covered in a haze that’ll make him think it’s a dream. Keith pulls him closer till they’re both rubbing against each other, and Keith can’t help but let out a loud moan.

Shiro licks his palm and reaches down in between them, wrapping his hand around both of them. Keith goes cross-eyed and falls forward, arms automatically wrapping around Shiro’s shoulders. Shiro captures him in a kiss, one where Keith can feel the vibrations from his chest as he strokes upward and squeezes.

It’s been so long that the touch makes Keith’s legs shake. Shiro runs a thumb over the head and spreads the wetness, causing Keith to do  a full-body shudder. Shiro twists his hand and Keith bucks into it, and they both groan into each other’s space. It has Keith falling forward into Shiro’s arms, wrapping his arms around him so that he can cling onto him and bury his face into Shiro’s shoulder.

Under the scent of the cheap soap they keep in the house, Shiro smells so familiar, so much like home, so much like the man who had left. Keith inhales deeply and it makes his heart hurt in counterpoint to the feeling of Shiro's rough palm working them both. Shiro speeds up, and Keith’s quickly losing himself in it.

Keith can't stop moving, can't stop helping Shiro with his hips as he digs his nails into his back. He moves one hand down till its half on the two of them and half on the hand Shiro has wrapped around them. Shiro's hand is large and certain under his, moving deftly in a way that has Keith breathless. Keith pries Shiro off gently and takes him in hand, pulling up with a twist of his wrist that has Shiro gasping into his mouth.

“Keith,” Shiro's voice is shaking; so is his body, the tremors all too familiar to Keith. Keith hasn’t felt good like this in so long, doesn’t think Shiro has either. He moves faster, eager for the way Shiro’s brow pinches and his mouth falls open around Keith’s name. Keith swallows him up in a kiss just as Shiro finishes, warm and wet over Keith’s hand.

Shiro wastes no time in getting a hand around Keith, determined to pull him off to his own end. The blood is rushing too loudly in his ears to hear what Shiro murmurs into his skin and Keith chokes on air as he comes, a year’s worth of longing and repression starting to untangle itself from around his gut. Shiro doesn’t stop tugging, doesn’t stop stroking until Keith’s fully done and sensitive.

Keith tries to even his breathing, tries to come down from the high as Shiro’s hand shifts off of him and onto his hip. It squeezes as Keith shapes his exhales into Shiro’s name, still clinging onto Shiro. Shiro lays a wet trail of biting kisses up the side of his neck till he reaches his jaw. Keith’s legs are weak, and his chest feels loose for the first time in ages. In the rush of it, words threaten to spill out of Keith’s mouth.

“Shiro,” he breathes, and Shiro responds with a kiss to his chin. “Shiro, I-”

He loves him. It’s a simple, old fact that’s carved into Keith’s bones, carved into his soul like a prayer. And he remembers that he doesn’t want to bind Shiro to him under the guise of duty. A small part of him wants to build a wall against the future hurt of a Shiro that could fall out of love with him.

The facts as they are, state that Shiro is a different man. He knows this. Knows that if Shiro gets his memory back, he’ll still be a changed man. Keith still loves him, will love him till he’s stuttering out his last breath.

The facts as they are, state that Keith is a different man. A year of teetering on the edge, a year of sitting in the dark of the night and wondering if his mourning was taking over reality, has changed Keith. Shiro knew Keith as a boy with rough edges, as a confused teen with a bite, as a man who grew out of both and had taken himself to whetstone, sharpening himself into something better. Something good.

In Shiro’s absence and all that had followed, Keith had been left out to turn brittle and chip at the edges. Shiro might like this for now, part out of something genuine that Keith can’t be optimistic for, part out of obligation from Keith saving him to finding out they’re married. He might not like it for long though.

And Keith can’t help but think that if Shiro gets his memory back, if it converges with who he is now, with what had happened to him over the course of the year, there’s a high possibility that the changed man Shiro will become will have little room left to love Keith the way he did before.

Keith’s hit with the sudden realization that this is it. This is the limit of how much he can take from Shiro without feeling like he’s Shiro’s ball and chain. Shiro is made out of bravery, strength, nobility. Those things are innate to him. The love he had for Keith had been fostered, had been built from Shiro’s hands, but that love had not been something Shiro had been born with, And Keith wants his love, wants him, but not if Shiro’s acting out of obligation to their past. He wants Shiro to love him freely. Keith thinks it’s out of the realm of possibility.

“I can’t do this,” Keith chokes out, hangs his head. Tears prick at the corner of his eyes and Shiro says his name as he runs a metal hand up Keith’s side. It’s distant, the touch the words. Keith might have earned whatever he had just gotten, but he doesn’t deserve anything more.

Hurriedly, he tucks himself in.

“Keith-” Shiro starts, tries to hold onto Keith’s wrist but lets go as soon as Keith tugs it. “What happened?”

“I can’t do this,” Keith says, sliding off Shiro’s lap. He pulls his sweatpants up fully, and swipes the corner of his eyes with the back of his hand. “It’s not fair.”

“Not fair to who, Keith?” Shiro asks with a tinge of hurt lining his voice. Keith stands up and Shiro joins him, but doesn’t make a move to touch him again. Keith’s thankful for that, because he feels like he’s going to fall into dust at the slightest content.

“You, Shiro,” Keith replies, voice cracking as he tries to keep it steady. “It’s not fair to you.”

He takes one last look at Shiro before he realizes he cannot stay here any longer, not in this room. He’ll take the couch or crash in someone’s room or stand outside on guard all night, but Keith’s suffocating in this room.

Shiro lets him go without another word.

 

* * *

 

 

Coming face to face with Lotor is extremely unsettling. There’s something off about him that Keith can’t quite place, something that unsettles him to the core.

Lotor gives him a bored look and a raised eyebrow, but doesn’t shift from where he’s sitting on his iron cot. Keith’s only been in the room for a total of fifteen minutes, but it feels like it’s been stretched into hours and somehow, he’s the one under scrutiny. It could be the way that Lotor’s gaze feels unnatural; it could be that Shiro is watching with the others through a camera feed.

Shiro had given Keith space in the morning. He had sat beside Keith at the dining table so that no one would notice that they weren’t speaking.  Coran had looked between them with concern and apology, but Keith had shook his head while everyone else paid attention to a story Lance was telling. Keith tried to cast an apologetic look towards Shiro; he knows he owes him more than just running away, but he can’t bring himself to talk. Not yet anyways.

Keith had gotten a soft smile in return, one that Keith’s learned a long time ago says that it’s okay. That it hurts, but it’s okay. It was minimal comfort, but Keith took it anyways. He couldn’t get the ghost of Shiro’s touch out of his head, couldn’t ignore the way he felt like Shiro’s hands were still skimming over his body. Couldn’t get over still craving it, despite the way Keith had turned the night.

Kolivan had come by shortly after breakfast, as promised. He brought with him an armoured transport and two other people to sit guard in the back with Shiro and Pidge as Keith sat in the passenger seat with Kolivan. Coran and Lance trailed behind in Lance’s firebird as they snaked their way through the sideroads, their makeshift caravan kicking up dust as they went.  Hunk’s holding down the farmhouse with Allura, on standby just in case.

The Blades have set up base in a small convenience store around fifty minutes out from the farmhouse. It’s got regular civilian traffic running through it, a functioning gas station, and an ex-SEAL wearing a nametag that says _Regris_ working as a cashier. Kolivan had lead Keith through the store, while his associates pulled the transport around to the entrance at the back of the store.

The were led down a set of stairs to the basement of the store and across a narrow, fluorescent-lit hallway. The light had hummed loudly above them, and Keith could see small copper coloured flecks across the tubes. It had smelled strongly like bleach in the hallway, and when Keith looked over his shoulder towards the others behind him, he saw Shiro wearing a distant expression. He had wanted to stop and check in on him, but Shiro had blinked and his eyes had gone back to normal and Keith had chalked it up to a trick of the light. He didn’t know if it was something Shiro would have allowed him to do anyways; Keith hadn’t realized he was staring till someone jostled him forward.

They’ve turned the basement of the store into a dark holding room; Lotor’s in a cell in the far corner, while Zethrid’s on the opposite end. She had been lying down when they entered, arm hanging off the side of her cot. When Keith got a closer look, he saw that her eyes were open and glazed over, tinged yellow. Her chest still rose and fell, but it was unnerving to see her laying there unblinking.

Kolivan said that they had to tranquilize her; she had been mouthy but otherwise fine when they brought her in, but as soon as they threw her in her cell, she had started screaming. When two guards rushed to help her, she smashed her head into the mirror and pried off a shard, swinging it like a knife.

Their group had been herded into the surveillance side of an interrogation room. Kolivan had relayed the information Lotor had given them; it hadn’t been anything they hadn’t heard before, hadn’t been anything new to them. The Galra want Shiro back; the Galra are carrying out human experiments; Shiro is their crown jewel in these experiments. Lotor has also asked for Keith repeatedly, by name.

So Keith finds himself sitting on an uncomfortable metal chair at the other end of Lotor’s cell, while Lotor sits and stares back. He’s shackled to his bed, but looks like he has no intention of pouncing. Not yet, anyways. There’s still something predatory in the way the man holds himself. Keith doesn’t want to be the first to talk, and it looks like Lotor doesn’t either, so they’re sitting and playing a silent game of chicken. Even though he knows he’s monitored, Lotor has insisted on no one else joining them in his cell.

Keith’s close to being the first one to crack. The silence is unbearable. The surveillance is extremely uncomfortable. The fact that it leaves Keith enough mental space to mull over the night, no matter how much he tries to stop himself, is the perfect, horrible blend of the two. He folds his arms over his chest and Lotor follows the movement with his eyes like a cat.

In the clinical white light of the cell Keith can see the same jaundiced tinge to Lotor’s sclera that Zethrid had. Lotor catches him looking, grins, and is the first one to break the silence.

“It’s probably not what you think,” he says, and when Keith raises an eyebrow, he elaborates. “My eyes. It’s not a disease. Not quite, anyways.”

“Don’t care,” Keith grunts, pinching his brow. “I’m not here to talk about that.”

“Really?” Lotor tilts his head back, tipping his chin forward. “I thought you came here on my request. I was hoping that I’d get to choose what we talk about.”

“Yeah?” Keith gives him a flat, unimpressed look.  “What did you want to talk about?”

“The same things as you do,” Lotor replies casually.  “Your husband, for starters.”

Keith stiffens at the word _husband_ , and Lotor’s grin widens. Keith can already tell the expression the others have in the room from where they’re observing; it’s probably stunned silence, because they still have yet to tell anyone that Shiro knows.

“Oh?” Lotor raises an eyebrow. He glances towards the upper right corner of the cell, where the camera is mounted.  “Does he not know that you’re married?”

“He knows,” Keith replies coolly, and if he wasn’t so steadfast in his observance, he would have missed the way Lotor’s face slipped just a fraction. “So what about him?”

“The Galra are going to keep looking for him,” Lotor says, pushing himself closer to the edge of the cot.  “They don’t know how to stop.”

“What were you using him for?” Keith asks, straight to the point. He’s not a fan of playing with his food; he knows he’s going to extract information one way or the other.  “We know that you had a bigger plan for him.”

“He’s a special one,” Lotor taps his chin thoughtfully. “No one lasted through as many experiments as he did. No one lasted through as many fights, either. Does he like his arm?”  A pause. And then, “Do _you_ like his arm?”

“What do you want with him?” Keith counters, and Lotor snorts. “What was your plan for him?”

“Our spear through the carcass of death,” Lotor enunciates each word, hissing on the _s_. “That’s what they kept calling him. He was very special to my father. Is very special, I should say.”

“What were you planning to do with him?” Keith knows Lotor’s going to work him up, and Keith’s already in a precarious state. But Keith is nothing if not capable of being stoic when needed; it’s something he had learned from Shiro, something he didn’t quite have a handle on till Shiro went missing.

“Something better than stringing him along across the desert,” Lotor leans forward, and props his elbows up on his legs. He uses his hands as a support for his chin. “Tell me, Keith. When it’s clear he’s not getting his memory back, what are you planning to do with him? Set him out in the wild so we can hunt him down? Or are you going to keep him on a leash like some pathetic dog?”

The words don’t agitate Keith. Nothing anyone can say will be worse than what he’s told himself. But there’s something odd about the rhythm of Lotor’s words, Keith realizes. It’s almost robotic in nature, disparate, but Keith can’t quite pinpoint what about it sounds off. It’s like being spoken to by a reconfigured version of HAL 9000, and the cadence of Lotor’s words crawl under his skin.

“You’re running some big game for someone sitting in a cell,” Keith says gruffly and Lotor looks pointedly disinterested. “Why did you ask for me?”

“Well,” Lotor says. “Shiro kept saying your name over and over again when he was with us. I just wanted to meet the man behind the man, as it were.”

A pause, and then,

“It’s a shame you left the Garrison— you made a really good bargaining chip while you were still there,” Lotor’s words curl around Keith like acrid smoke.  “A man will go to great lengths for you when you put an active target on his beloved’s back. Do you know that’s how we got him to fight at first? He wouldn’t do shit otherwise, even if we hurt him. All we actually needed was to let him know how easy it would have been to kill you.”

Keith moves before he knows what he’s doing. Before his brain catches up with his hands, he’s launched across the room and lands a solid back-handed smack against Lotor’s face. It’s completely against his modus operandi, but the rage that’s been simmering in him for a while now has started to boil, started to spill over the edges.

“I decide what we get to talk about now,” Keith says, his steady voice belying the way his hands shake. “Or else.”

“Or else what?” Lotor moves to rub his jaw, but the chains shackling his hands are too short. He rolls his neck instead, and looks completely unaffected. “You’ll kill me? I’d welcome it.”

Keith’s tempted to spit out another threat as he pushes up his sleeves. He’s tempted to tell Lotor he’s ready to leave him here to rot for however long he can survive. But he’s already lashed out once, and he can’t let Lotor know that his claws have started to dig in. So instead, he sits back down and switches the topic, voice dropping into something unaffected again.

“Your friend had a seizure,” Keith states, crossing one arm over the other. He leans back in his chair, enough to let Lotor know that he doesn’t see him as a threat at all. “Why?”

“She needs an injection,” Lotor replies. “I’ve told them that already. It’s in the jacket they took from me. If they want to get her up and talking, they just have to drop the vial into a syringe and she’ll be as good as new.”

“What is it?” Keith asks. Kolivan had mentioned something about the vial, something about it being filled with a volatile liquid that they’re currently examining under quarantine. He hadn’t mentioned it being an injectable, hadn’t mentioned Lotor talking about it.

“Some battery juice,” Lotor winks at Keith. “Keeps her functioning. Keeps her animated.”

“Is it something you need, too?” Keith waves a finger at one of his own eyes.  “She had the same yellow in her sclera as you do.”

“Observant,” Lotor clicks, raising a thin eyebrow again.

“Sure am,” Keith replies, and Lotor shakes his head.

“She won’t die,” Lotor says. “She just won’t move without it.

“She won’t die?” Keith leans forward in his seat, giving Lotor an assessing look. “So then she doesn’t need it.” And then,  “Do you?”

“I’m long past it,” Lotor says easily. “Throw it out if you want to leave Zethrid like that. Though, she’s not going to be very useful then, is she?”

“That’s what we have you for,” Keith says. “What’s in the vial?”

Lotor starts to speak, but his eyes widen as something seems to get caught on its way out. Keith tilts his head, questioning, and Lotor starts coughing loudly.

It’s a retching, wet cough that sounds like Lotor’s choking, and he covers his mouth with his hand, scrunching his eyes shut. Keith makes no move as Lotor hacks loudly, the sound echoing through the cell.  His large chest heaves with each cough, and Keith considers getting him a glass of water.

The coughing stops after thirty seconds, dying down as Lotor takes a sharp inhale. He removes his hand from his face, and Keith can see a red smear across his mouth. The palm that had been covering up his mouth is covered in a dark brown-red phlegm that has a deep stench like something old and rotten. Lotor stares at his hand, and there’s a trail of dark spit hanging from his bottom lip.

It’s almost black, poisonous in its appearance, and Keith can see Kolivan and another member of the Blades approach the cell door.

Lotor wipes the hand on the sheet of his bed, leaving a large dark copper smear across the white sheets. The smell gets worse, and when Lotor grins at Keith, it’s a lot more unhinged. His white teeth are stained red, with small black clots stuck in the gums. There’s a trickle down from his left nostril; it’s as dark as the rest of the blood.

Off-handedly, Keith realizes that Lotor has the same oily sheen to him that Sendak had. It’s less obvious on him, but the light of the cell catches it as the room becomes more pungent.

“You want to know what’s in the vial?” Lotor asks, voice hoarse. He coughs again; this time, he doesn’t bother to cover it up. Dark red phlegm lands short of Keith's feet. He retches and it’s loud, like someone’s pulling something through his throat.

“Do you need it?” Keith asks, watching as Lotor spits to his side. Lotor shakes his head. Licks his lips. Coughs again, gasps like a man dying. His eyes bulge out, and their yellowness seems more pronounced. The door to the cell slides open, but Lotor puts a chained hand up. For a fleeting moment, when Lotor looks up at Keith again, Keith thinks that a different man is looking at him.

It causes him to do a double take.

“I’ll tell you,” Lotor says, his voice creaking. “I’ll do you one better, actually.”


	7. Chapter 7

It’s hard not to be in the same car as Keith and not feel the ghost of his touch. What they did hangs heavy between them as they drive the long, seemingly endless freeway. They have a buffer in the back seat of the white Mustang in the shape of Lance, who’s on the phone with Allura and Coran, but Shiro’s still rigid in the driver’s seat.

Lotor had given Keith the location and instructions on how to get close enough to the Galra’s main facility to gain some intel. He had done it in between coughing up what looked like old, rotting blood and had refused to say anything about his motive. He has given them a very precise time frame to sneak onto the base, down to the very minute. Everyone, including Shiro, is skeptical as to how easy Lotor has given up the coordinates to a crucial location. Especially since it differs so wildly from intelligence the Blades have from one of their embedded members.

They had brought that up to Lotor while Shiro and the rest of the group sat in the surveillance room watching, and Lotor had scoffed at it like it was nothing.

“Your sources aren’t as reliable as you’d like to think,” Lotor had said. “That hasn’t been our base since Shiro escaped.”

Kolivan had kept quiet on the fact that their latest report had come from three days ago. Allura had dropped trackers onto two of Lotor’s cars that had escaped the gas station melee, and _that_ has been pinging activity at a third, different location. The general consensus is that it is the least likely to be of any importance, but Hunk and Pidge are going to go scout it out anyways. Kolivan, Allura, and Coran have gone to do reconnaissance on the Blades’ intel, which has left Keith, Lance, and Shiro to follow up on Lotor’s information.

Lance has been continuously grumbling about having drawn the short straw, and Shiro doesn’t blame him. There had been a moment of heavy silence when Lotor had called Shiro Keith’s husband and when Keith had affirmed Shiro knew, Lance and Pidge had turned to Shiro with a hopefully glimmer. Coran did not.

Shiro had his jaw clenched, and he looked ahead. His expression was stern enough that the others knew that it wasn’t good news. Thankfully, no one had prodded any further, but he’s not got any illusions about what they had pulled Hunk and Allura to the side to frantically tell when they had reached back to the farmhouse.

Keith and Shiro hadn’t talked much, beyond Shiro telling Keith to take their room. He had been too in shock the night before to act properly, but Shiro told Keith that he had just been discharged from the hospital and that he needed a proper bed. Keith hadn’t put up much of an argument; in the morning, Shiro found out that he had made Coran sleep in their room while he took Coran’s.

The morning after had been strained, everyone walking on eggshells around the two of them. Keith had looked immeasurably tired, and Shiro had asked him in a low whisper if he was doing better when no one was looking. Keith had nodded blandly in return before moving again, and now Shiro’s stuck wondering what he’s done.

Keith had been whipcord lean and tense under his arms, and had moved against him with a practiced ease that Shiro wish he knew how to reciprocate. He tried the best he could, drinking in the kisses and the touches and the feeling of Keith against him in an intimate way. Shiro didn’t completely let go; yet, it was an incomparable experience. For a brief moment, Shiro had felt that something was going right, that he was a little less lost.

He had thought they were good, but the emotional whiplash that came after had been a come-to-God moment for Shiro. Whatever illusion he had of Keith accepting him in than more than just someone to be protected had been shattered. It’s crushed something within Shiro.

“They’re going to inject Zethrid with whatever Lotor gave them,” Lance says after he hangs up. “They can’t quite figure out what it is. They tested it on some lab rats and apparently there’s no difference in them.”

Keith grunts in confirmation, while Shiro keeps his eyes on the road ahead.

“How’s Lotor?” he asks, and Lance makes a noncommittal shrug.

“He’s apparently just sleeping now,” Lance replies. “Made himself right at home after talking to Keith.”

“I still don’t trust him,” Keith says. “He sounds like he’s lying half the time.”

“He seemed to know a lot,” Lance points out, and there’s a forced casual tone to his voice. “Especially about you two.”

Neither of them reply. Shiro expects the terse silence to stop Lance from asking any more but—

“When did you find out?” Lance directs the question towards Shiro, and Shiro almost doesn’t answer it. He looks over to Keith, and Keith’s staring straight ahead with no expression.

“At the hospital,” Shiro replies. “Coran told me, and that’s how the hospital allowed me to stay overnight.”

“So…” Lance trails off, and for a brief moment, Shiro thinks it’s about to veer into an extremely uncomfortable line of questioning. “Did it jog any of your memories?”

It’s not as bad as Shiro had thought it would be. Small blessings. He knows the answer is going to make the mood of the car more uneasy. Curses he cannot avoid.

“No,” Shiro says truthfully. “I can’t remember anyone, even when I try.”

It’s only a partial lie; the only one he’s tried to remember is Keith. After Keith had left him in their room, Shiro had scavenged his brain for something, anything. Ulaz had said that the Galra were the only ones who held Shiro’s memories, but Shiro was hoping that he could find remnants of their past, that there had been something the Galra hadn’t been able to scour from him.

Shiro had come up empty handed. It had hurt.

He’s had that initial spark with Keith that kindled into a flame that still burns, even now when Keith holds him at an arm’s length. It had grown hotter when they had been together, and maybe Shiro’s inability to extinguish it is one of the only ghosts from his pasts that the Galra have let him keep. That, and the need to hold onto Keith and Shiro wonders what kind of love they had had for each other before all this, that the need feels as intrinsic to him as his blood.

“That’s why I need to get my memories back,” Shiro tacks on, trying to move out the silence. “It sucks not being able to remember any of you.”

“It’s a dangerous task,” Keith starts, and Shiro knows what he’s going to say, because he had said it before they had loaded into the car as well. Keith had an honest moment with Shiro, and told him that he’s not worth the danger of remembering. “Remembering everyone is not-”

“Is not the only reason,” Shiro says firmly, cutting Keith off with no room. “I need to remember myself. I hate feeling like I’m lost all the time, Keith. I need to know who I am.”

It’s leaving something sour in him, so he clenches his jaw and tightens his fingers on the wheel. He makes it a full twenty seconds before he cracks.

“But whatever I told you before, I meant,” the words tumble out of Shiro, unbidden. He doesn’t mean to say it, but there’s a quick-snap lightbulb in him that tells him that this might be the only time Keith listens. “Whatever I did before, whatever we did, I did it because I wanted to.”

Keith doesn’t say anything, but the shrill ringtone of Lance’s phone cuts through the car and distracts them.

The location the Blades had, the location that had been fed to them by their embedded members no longer exists. All that sits there is a razed warehouse and an uprooted fence. And according to Ulaz, it’s not a new type of destruction. The debris has settled; the Galra have not been there for weeks, maybe even months. There is only one fresh thing at the site; the dead body of their embed, the one that had been misinforming them, propped up on on a rusting metal chair at the front step of the warehouse.

Kolivan says that they must now assume that the remaining embeds have been compromised. He’s cutting off all communication with them till they figure out what’s going on, and they’re doubling down on security at their own base. It’s protected by Kolivan’s inner circle, and he’s certain there’s not a sleeper agent amongst them.

No one in the car says anything after he hangs up, but there’s apprehension in the air.

Keith and Shiro don’t pick their conversation back up.

 

 

* * *

 

The location Lotor’s given them is an old penitentiary nestled within almost-barren foothills. It’s got a fenced in perimeter, and Lotor’s given them the location of the northernmost gates. He claims it’s patrolled only once a day, and they have a three hour window in between patrols to get in, do some recon, and get out. He’s even given them the best vantage point where they can get close but still be hidden amongst the rocks and shrubs and sun.

It’s not as easy a location to watch as their last facility, Lotor says, because the last facility had been on the flats where they could monitor the skyline easily. But the Galra have confidence, and the confidence has left them with blindspots here and there, as minimal as they are.

As they approach, Hunk and Pidge check in from where Allura’s trackers had led them. It’s a dead end— the trackers had led them to the house of a family of five, nestled in a tiny suburb. They found the trackers on the collars of the two dogs the family owned, something which Pidge is particularly incensed by.

“Doesn’t this mean they’re going to find these ones too?” Shiro asks as they slowly drive up to the gate. There’s no one there, as Lotor said. Lotor’s given them a code to get in through the gates, a code that works to their mild surprise.

“ _No,_ ” Pidge says tersely over the speaker of Keith’s phone. _“These ones are mine_.”

It’s a cautious drive from the unguarded entrance towards their lookout. Lance is assembling his rifle in the back seat and loading the tracker on, while Keith quietly configures the small tablet Pidge had given them. He’s going to have to guide the tracker as it maps each floor, and hope that it avoids detection. Pidge has assured them that no one’s going to see the small flat coin-sized object, but there’s still some trepidation amongst them.

No one speaks as Shiro pulls up to the base of one of the hills, one where they will face the entrance on an angle on a backlight. The afternoon sun hangs high and merciless in the sky, bearing down on them as they trudge up the hill. Shiro can feel the heat bake the back of his neck and warm his scalp as the rocks crunch under their boots, sending small clouds of dust up. The air around them is permeated with the smell of sharp gasoline and sharper chemicals, unnatural in a familiar way that makes Shiro uncomfortable. He can taste it on his tongue, and feels a trickle of sweat start down the nape of his neck.

They spot the large brush Lotor told them about; so far, everything he’s told them has been accurate. They settle down near the top of the hill, using an outcrop to hide themselves and the duffel bag Lance has brought along. Keith settles down on one side of Lance with his tablet, while Shiro settles down on the other with a pair of binoculars. None of them speak as they take in the sight on the other side of the hill.

It’s not an extremely large compound, not on the surface level anyways. There’s a two-story building with three large sheds, one on each side and one in the back that sits in front of a larger garage. It’s got a tall barbed-wire fence around it, and three sets of gates with an outpost at each gate.  It doesn’t look foreboding, nor does it look innocuous; the facility just sits there, evoking a sense of numb nothingness that is extremely unsettling. The taste of the chemicals in the air grow heavier on Shiro’s tongue and he swallows around it. He raises his binoculars to scan the area.

There’s a truck with a canvas top coming in from the southeast. Shiro checks it against the time on his phone, and sees that it’s coming at exactly the time Lotor had said it would, down to the minute. It kicks up clouds of dust behind it, and Shiro calls it out quietly. Keith hums in acknowledgement, while Lance props up a rifle.

It’s not a real rifle; the echo of that would be too loud, and would get them caught in an instant. It looks more like a toy, but Lance assures them that it’s as silent as a weapon can be. He takes aim as the truck draws closer, whistling gently as he tracks it with his muzzle.

“Don’t miss,” Keith says, and Lance scoffs as he focuses through his scope.

“Yes mom,” he says, right before he pulls the trigger. There’s a soft _pop-swoosh_ , and a few moments later, Shiro hears the tablet from Keith’s side ping, indicating the tracker has gone online.

“We’re moving,” Keith says. Shiro watches through binoculars as the truck pulls in through the gates.

“Atta girl,” Lance mutters, lowering his rifle. There’s a soft buzz, and Lance digs out his phone. “They said they injected that liquid into Zethrid back at the base. She hasn’t shown any reaction yet.”

Shiro hums and continues to observe. The truck pulls up near the front of the decrepit building, and the front door swings open. Keith fiddles with the tablet, and Shiro can see the small black tracker drop into the dust before it starts to roll. A tall, sleek looking woman steps out, followed by six other people in white lab coats. It’s enough of a crowd that no one notices the small mechanical object skittering across the pavement.

Lance unzips the duffle and throws in the rifle, bringing out another one he assembled in the car. It’s their “just-in-case”, if they run into a situation where it doesn’t matter if the sound of a gun echoes through the hills. He props it up again, and monitors through the scope.

The three of them remain extremely cautious and still as Shiro softly relays directions to Keith, who guides the tracker through the tablet. Forward. Angle towards three o’clock. Forward again. Sharp right to avoid detection. Keith manages to maneuver the tracker into the building, through the opened front doors. Shiro watches through the binoculars as the driver of the transport hops out and loops around the truck to the back.

The woman stands with her arms crossed over her chest. She’s got light grey hair and an angry scar stretching from ear to cheekbone before it drops down towards her mouth. She turns to say something to one of her colleagues, and Shiro sees a matching scar on the other side. There’s an unmistakable familiarity in her face; this must be Honerva, Lotor’s mother. The driver and one of her lab-coat colleagues left the canvas of the truck, and the driver pulls out a ramp before climbing up.

They step down with a metal cart carrying a large translucent barrel. A gold liquid, similar to the one Lotor had been carrying, swishes around in in the barrel as it’s taken down the ramp and settled in front of Honerva. Shiro adjusts the binoculars so that he can better see her face, but its still imperceptible. She gestures towards the truck again, and the driver climbs up the ramp. This time they bring out two people, each struggling with a burlap sack tied over their heads. The sacks are soaked nearly black, and one of the people have a gash across their side.

A third person trails behind the driver and the hostages. He’s dressed in dark fatigues with a scar on his cheek and sandy brown hair, and he looks _extremely_ familiar.

“Holy shit,” Lance breathes from beside Shiro, lowering his rifle and grabbing the binoculars from Shiro. Shiro makes a silent protest but Lance ignores him, adjusting the binoculars. “Oh my god.”

“What?” Keith hisses, and Lance swears again.

“That’s Matt,” Lance says. “Holy shit, that’s Matt Holt.”

Keith makes a noise of disbelief and grabs the binoculars from Lance. When he looks through them, he swears under his breath.

“This is our place,” Keith says. “This is where we need to be. Tell Pidge.”

Lance furiously taps away on his phone while Keith reaches over him to hand the binoculars back to Shiro. He nods, and Shiro takes them back. Shiro watches as Pidge’s brother takes the two people from the driver and starts herding them towards the door. He pauses at the entrance, and glances over his shoulder. His gaze doesn’t wander much, like he already knows where he has to look.

Shiro freezes as Matt makes eye contact with him through his binoculars. For a fleeting moment, Shiro thinks they’ve been made, but Matt turns back and continues to herd the prisoners into the building. The driver follows behind with the barrel of yellow liquid, as do two other people wheeling in similar barrels. Honerva turns on her heel and goes into the building as well with her group.

“He looked at us,” Shiro says faintly. “He didn’t do anything though.”

“No one’s storming out to catch us,” Lance points out, and Shiro looks unsure.

“The tracker’s finished the first floor,” Keith says, and Lance whistles lowly. “Works fast. Should I tell it to go up or down?”

“Down,” Shiro says firmly, and Keith nods. Shiro tilts his binoculars towards the second floor of the building while Keith plays on the tablet, maneuvering the tracker through the map it’s downloaded onto the device. The second floor pretty much looks like a storage unit; through the grills of the window, Shiro can’t detect much movement. There is no shifting shadows, no moving bodies, but there does seem to be rows and rows of containers. He can’t get quite a proper look at them, but he’s got a gut feeling that the subterranean floors are of more importance anyways.

They wait in silence as the tracker continues to map through the basement. Keith frowns, concentrated on the tablet, while Shiro watches the guards that casually patrol the grounds. Lotor was right; no one’s bothered to even glance in the direction of their vantage position, except for Matt. No one’s come storming out either, and he doesn’t see any cars deploying from the building either.

“First floor of their basement done,” Keith says. “There’s another one underneath. I’m going in.”

There’s two more floors underneath that one as well, and they patiently wait for the tracker to make its way through and pick up all the data for those as well. Keith tilts the tablet towards Shiro as the tracker maps out the last floor, and Shiro watches as a skeleton sketch draws itself up on the screen. It completes the last floor as well, and carefully, Keith drags the tracker towards where the map says a freight elevator sits. Sixty seconds later, the tracker starts moving upwards through the subterranean floors, past the first, and comes to a halt in the second.

“I guess this is our last one,” Keith murmurs,and the three of them watch as the tracker starts to collect the information for the second floor.

It makes it about a quarter of the way before it’s abruptly cut out. Silence stretches over them like a taut string before it snaps, and they immediately jump to action.

“Well,” Lance says wryly. “This was fun.”

They scramble towards the car, all three of them keeping their ears strained from any action from the building. They don’t hear any sirens, don’t hear any commotion in the distance, but Shiro knows that means nothing. Lance practically launches himself in the back seat, and belatedly everyone remembers to _not_ slam the doors shut.

“I don’t think we got spotted,” Keith says, slightly breathless, staring at the tablet. There’s a blinking red _TERMINATED_ flashing across the screen that he manages to swipe away. “The map’s saved.”

“Good,” Shiro says, turning on the ignition to the car. “It’s time to get out of here.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Shiro doesn’t know if it’s a streak of luck that they escape or that Lotor truly didn’t misinform them to begin with, but they make it out of the compound undetected. Hunk and Pidge are running ten minutes behind them, having stopped in a nearby town, but they’re on their way back to the house as well. Keith’s relayed the information, including the tracker getting crushed, and Pidge hums thoughtfully on the other end of the phone.

 _“That’s fine,”_ she says. _“They’re untraceable. I’ve got  the full map backed up from it anyways.”_

She’s in relatively good spirits upon hearing her brother’s alive. It’s given a further urgency to their plans, but Pidge had battered them with questions when they had called. After assuring her that her brother is alive and well, albeit seemingly working for the Galra, Pidge had a perk in her voice. Shiro remembers Keith telling him that her optimism occasionally veered on the edge of brutal.

“Are you sure they’re untraceable?” Lance asks, leaning forward in between the front seats as Keith angles the phone towards him. “We don’t know if they were accidentally destroyed or someone found them.”

 _“Are you doubting me?”_ Pidge scoffs, and makes an indignant sound when Lance replies with an affirmative. _“If they do manage to trace it, they’ll be tracing it back to a Blockbuster in Utah that ran out of business. We’re good.”_

 _“Coran and Allura are going to the Blades’ base,”_ Hulk adds. _“I think they might stay over there. They said something about studying whatever liquid Lotor had on him. It’ll probably help us find out why they’re storing so much of it too.”_

“Cool,” Keith replies. “See you soon.”

The phone call ends, and Keith tucks his phone away. Lance hums along with the song on the radio and Keith sits in silence. They’re closer, and that fills Shiro with some kind of dread. Idly, he wonders how it would have been if he truly had just made it east and started a new life, not knowing what his true past was.

But something in him tells him that it has never been an option. It’s one thing to be haunted, but another to be hunted, and it feels fated that he’d be both. He doesn’t know how deep the Galra have dug their claws in but he doesn’t doubt that they’d be waiting for him in the shadows regardless of where he turned up. At least this way he can face them head on. He’s not going to show it, but it fills him with some sort of fear. All said and done though, Shiro does know one thing about himself for certain. He would rather grab the fear by the horns and do his best to drive a knife through it than to run away from it.

The car smells like sweat and dust and dirt and thrumming nervousness. Shiro drives with focus, but the image of the facility is burned into his eyes like a brand. He can’t stop thinking about the yellow liquid, about Honerva, about Matt Holt seemingly looking at him in the eye from such a vast distance. The knuckles of his left hand are going white on the steering wheel and before Shiro can over think, he tries to steer his mind in a different direction. It’s hard when no one in the car is talking.

Eventually, his mind veers to the brief conversation he had with Keith. Shiro knows that now is maybe not the time to dwell on it, but if he doesn’t shift his focus somewhere else, he’ll start digging in his own memories in the silence of the car to see if he can find anything useful. It would not be pragmatic to slip into a traumatic headspace while doing 90 down the freeway so Shiro thinks about Keith. Thinks about what Keith said, now and before. About what’s fair, what’s not.

He can’t parse whether Keith wants to be with him, doesn’t want to be with him, or is scared to be with him. Shiro wonders if Keith’s trying to stay true to the memory of who Shiro was, and if he can’t quite come to terms with who Shiro is.

And Shiro won’t blame him for it. Keith loved him at one point, and maybe he still does— no one claws their way through the desert and puts their life at risk for someone repeatedly the way Keith has done for Shiro on an empty emotional fuel tank. But’s messy and complicated and done in the memory of a past iteration of Shiro and Shiro doesn’t know if he’ll ever measure up to who he had been before he had been kidnapped.

But he needs to tell Keith that he’s genuine in what he feels right now. That he’s real, and he’s not doing all of this out of some misplaced sense of duty. Bringing it up in the car might be a bit of a cheap shot, especially since Keith can’t remove himself from the conversation, but Shiro needs to have it before it eats away at him completely.

“Hey,” he tells Keith, and Keith turns to him with a questioning look.

“Yeah?” he says, and Shiro clears his throat, mentally preparing himself before he speaks.

“About what we were talking about before,” Shiro starts, and Keith’s face visibly falls. In the rearview mirror, Lance shifts uncomfortably.

“Maybe we should wait till we get back to the house,” Lance suggests, and Keith shakes his head.

“Let him speak,” Keith says to Lance, and Lance holds both his palms up as he sits back in his seat. Shiro won’t be surprised if Keith’s allowed it, because it’d be significantly more uncomfortable alone in the house.

“I just wanted to say again that I meant it,” Shiro says. “Everything I did, I meant it. You saving me, finding out we were married— all that was a lot. It made me feel a lot. But everything I did, I meant it.”

Keith remains silent for a few moments, and Shiro thinks that that’ll be the end of that. He doesn’t expect much of a reaction, but he needs to get the words out there. Shiro doesn’t think it’ll convince Keith to drop whatever inhibitions he has, and he doesn’t want to try to convince him to do something he doesn’t want to do. Shiro just wants Keith to _know_.

“I don’t want you to feel like you’re compelled to do anything,” Keith says finally, quietly. “You don’t owe me anything just because we were married.”

“Yeah, I’ll just tune out,” Lance says in the back, looking mildly uncomfortable. Shiro glances over at Keith, and sees him looking at Shiro with an intensity.

“Was that it?” Shiro asks slowly. “Did you want to stop because you thought you were forcing me into doing something?”

“You didn’t do anything till Coran told you we were married,” Keith points out, and Shiro shakes his head.

“I was drawn to you from the moment I picked you up,” Shiro says evenly, honestly. “It built over time but it doesn’t change the fact that it was there from the beginning. And the more I saw the way you lead, the way you did things, the way you protected me, the more I wanted to know about you.”

“It’s not your duty to go back to how things were before you went missing,” Keith gives his non-answer, shifting in his seat. Shiro doesn’t think Keith’s listening to him, thinks Keith’s maybe shut down and gone onto a script he’s rehearsed in his head a hundred times. “You don’t need to do this just because I’ve saved you a few times, and you especially don’t need to do this because we were married.”

“Whatever I did, I did independent of knowing we were married,” Shiro repeats. “That’s what I’m saying. I had those feelings for a while.”

“But you didn’t do anything until you knew,” Keith replies, and it takes a lot for Shiro to not give an irritated sigh “That’s what I’m saying.”

“Yeah?” Shiro can’t help the bite with which his words come out. “When else was I going to act on them? When I woke up to a gun to my face? Or was it any time after, when there were people trying to mow you down so that they could capture me again?”

“That’s not— it’s not the same-”

“If you don’t want me anymore, that’s okay,” Shiro cuts in, determined to get his full piece in. “But don’t think what I feel isn’t real. Don’t think I’m doing this because I found out we were married or that I think I owe you something. You need to give yourself some credit too.”

Lance lets out a sharp whistle. Shiro grips his steering wheel a little tighter, but lets his other hand drum its fingers casually on his thigh, belying how much nervous energy is coursing through him. Shiro knows now’s the chance to be fully honest with Keith, fully lay out what _he_ thinks Keith’s thinking, what he thinks is the reason behind Keith using Shiro’s feelings as a defence and referring to their marriage in the past tense. If Keith doesn’t deny it, then Shiro will know.

“I’ll respect it if you don’t want to do this because I’m not the same man you married,” Shiro says finally, still staring ahead. “I don’t know who I am. I just don't want to force you to do anything that you’re uncomfortable with. It’s your choice completely. I just want to say that everything for me came from a genuine place.”

Keith doesn’t say anything in return, and Shiro doesn’t hunt for it either. The car settles into uneasy silence as they drive, and Shiro can’t help the sour feeling in his gut. Pointedly, he makes no eye contact with Keith. Not until the numbers on the radio tick forward by five minutes.

When he does look over, Keith’s got his elbow propped up on the ledge of the door. His chin’s in his hand, and he’s looking out the window. The wind whips his hair and there’s a visible clench in his jaw, and Keith’s not angled himself away enough to hide the fact that the corners of his eyes have grown wet.

The sun starts its descent over the horizon, and Shiro wonders where they go from here. Shiro wants to tell Keith that it’s okay, that he’s allowed to feel that way. But Shiro doesn’t know how to talk to Keith while masking his own hurt, not yet, so he keeps quiet as they make their way back to the farm. It’s shit that this might be the only chance they’ll get to talk about it, because Shiro has no doubt that as soon as they return with the information, both their group and the Blades will kick into action.

Lotor was right; the razed warehouse and the new facility in the hills meant that the Blades do not have as clean a line of communication as they thought they did. They’ve got almost a full map of the building, except for the second floor. There’s no way to parse why the tracker died there.

But they’re close. Closer to the Galra than they were before. Closer to Shiro’s memories returning to him. Closer to recalling his old life, closer to recalling the terrifying interlude that had spanned over a year. For all his conviction and determination, if Shiro walks in and manages to recover his memories, he doesn’t know what kind of man will walk back out. Shiro tries to think about what he would do if he was Keith, but a small sinister voice reminds him that he doesn’t know enough about even himself to make that judgement.

It’s in his muscle memory to fight, it’s in his muscle memory to handle a weapon. Shiro thinks that they might stand a good chance against the Galra. Keith’s managed to act as some sort of protective spell over Shiro since they’ve met and Shiro doubts anyone in their group is going to give up without putting up a hell of a fight. The Blades seem to have a stake in the game as well, as nebulous as their presence has been.

They drive in silence for the remainder of the hour, Lance occasionally humming along to whatever’s playing on the radio while Keith folds his hands in his lap and stares straight ahead. Shiro tries his best to focus on the road and not on the man beside him and wonders if they’ll ever find a moment to properly talk about things. Shiro wants to because, independent of it all, he genuinely wants Keith, if Keith will have him. Shiro spends most of the hour lost in this thought, until he sees something odd in the horizon.

“Huh,” Shiro says, squinting at first. His eyes widen as soon as they register what’s happening. “Oh shit.”

Keith immediately sits up straight in attention, and Lance leans forward in between their seats as Shiro increases his speed.

“Fuck,” Keith swears under his breath, leaning forward.

There’s heat in the air as Shiro takes a sharp turn and pulls into the property. Smoke billows up from behind the farmhouse; the dilapidated silo is on fire, as is the barn beside it. The bright orange and yellow of the flames stand in stark contrast to the blue dusk settling around them.

Shiro rolls to a stop near the top of the driveway, watching as the flames threaten to embrace the trees near the buildings. He feels something circle his wrist; he looks down to see Keith grasping it briefly. He looks up at Keith and Keith shakes his head, wide-eyed. He doesn’t say anything, shock clear on his face.

“We should call the others,” Lance says faintly, and that breaks Keith out of his spell. He lets go of Shiro like nothing’s happened and starts digging into his pocket. He pulls out his phone and dials Hunk’s number.

 _“Keith?”_ Hunk replies, and Shiro can hear Pidge talking in the background.

“Hey,” Keith says, and there’s a small _pop_ in the distance as another cloud of smoke bellows up from the barn. “You’re still ten minutes out right? Go to the Blades. Don’t go back to the farmhouse, it’s been compromised.“

 _“Uh,”_ Hunk’s voice crackles over the speaker. _“Yeah. We can see._ ”

In their rearview mirror, Shiro can see the yellow pick up slowing down a few feet down the driveway leading up to the farmhouse. Keith’s about to get out, but Shiro stops him with a hand to his chest.

“Look,” Shiro says, and Keith follows the direction of Shiro’s wide-eyed gaze.

A black SUV rounds from the back of the house, looking like a hearse as it slowly crunches down the gravel. Keith tries to slip from Shiro’s grip, but Shiro feels a familiar sense of dread mounting in him and he uses it to pin Keith in the car. Lance leans forward from the back seat to look, just as the door to the SUV swings open.

A boot thuds onto the gravel, before it’s followed by another one. A large figure hauls out of the truck, backlit by the increasingly taller flames. The figure turns around, and Shiro can feel the moment Keith slumps into the seat in disbelief.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Lance breathes as Sendak cuts an intimidating and unmistakable silhouette in the growing dark. The air goes acrid around them, and Sendak rolls his neck. Without thinking, Shiro rolls up the windows of the car before they start to choke.  “I thought he died, what the _fuck_?”

“He did,” Keith says quietly. The colour has drained from his face completely; Shiro leaves his hand on Keith, too shaken to remove it.

“ _Guys, is that who I think it is-”_ Hunk starts, but Keith cuts him off.

“You need to run,” he says into the phone before hanging up.

Sendak stalks towards the pick up, slow and purposeful. Shiro can feel his heartbeat batter against his ribs, hears the soft _click_ of Lance cocking his rifle. Slowly, Shiro reaches for his own firearm as Sendak approaches them. He looks slicker than ever, with part of his face pieced off and missing from where Lotor had blown it off. It’s congealed like meat gone bad and makes the one-eyed smile Sendak gives them even more sadistic.

Slowly, like he’s playing with them, Sendak raises one hand and curls it into a fist, rapping on the window of Shiro’s car.

“I’m just here to send a message,” Sendak says, voice muffled through the glass. “You don’t have Lotor by any chance, do you? Didn’t see him in the house but it doesn’t hurt to ask.”

Shiro doesn’t remove the hand he has on Keith; he turns in his seat, blocking him from Sendak’s view, even as Keith tries to lean forward. Shiro’s about to put the Mustang in reverse and gun the _fuck_ out of there, but Sendak drives a fist through the window of the car door.

It shatters, sending glass onto Shiro’s lap as all three of them jump in their seats. Sendak places one bloodied hand on the frame of the door, and rattles the door handle with the other before grunting and in one clean go, ripping the door clear off its hinges.  Shiro watches as he throws it to the side like it’s nothing more than trash. Sendak doesn’t approach them again, but swaggers back with an unsettling grin.

“A lot easier to talk like this, yeah?” Sendak says, his leer oilier than before. “It’s okay, I’m just here to send a message.”

“We’re so fucked,” Lance mutters from the back, and through the fear, Shiro can’t help agree with him.

“Zarkon and Honerva want to extend a formal invitation to you,” Sendak says, raising both his arms in a congenial manner. Shiro can see the glisten of the embedded glass in his palm, and Sendak seems to pay no mind to it. “We know you’re planning to try and get the jump on us, we just want to make things easier for you.”

His voice still sends chills down Shiro’s spine, but he keeps his expression even. Sendak’s voice is clawing at his brain, threatening to yank him down somewhere dark again, but Shiro slowly shifts the car into reverse as Sendak continues talking.

“Walking in through the front door’s always easier than breaking in, right?” Sendak says, holding the same cadence in his voice as the world’s most disturbing game-show host. “They only request that you bring their precious son when you come knocking.”

There’s a disturbing bitterness to his tone, and Sendak barks out a laugh before he starts coughing. He raises his hands to cover his mouth, staring directly at Shiro as he hacks. When Sendak finishes his fit and lowers his palms, he’s got the same dark sludge over his hands that Lotor had retched up. Shiro’s eyes widen, and Sendak laughs again when he catches it, spitting off to the side.

Shiro immediately releases the brake, but there’s something hypnotic and lethal in the way that Sendak’s looking at him that prevents him from flooring it out of there. Sendak keeps laughing, gives them a loud _“Fuck you”_ before he trudges back to his own SUV. No one in the car speaks, no one tells Shiro to hit the gas because they’re all watching Sendak yank something out of the back seat of the car.

“A little incentive,” Sendak calls out loudly as Shiro’s car continues its backward roll. “To make sure you come. The Galra sends their regards.”

Sendak first throws a duffel bag onto the ground and then hoists something massive over his shoulder; Keith curses loudly and Shiro realizes what exactly Sendak’s swinging around on his heel with and pointing towards the farm house. Shiro breaks through whatever fear held its paralytic power over the car, and jams his foot down on the gas pedal, laying his hand on the horn so that Hunk gets the hint and starts to haul ass.

Frantic, Shiro looks over his shoulder as he steers the car down the driveway. Sendak turns and gives them a large wave before returning his attention to the farmhouse. Both vehicles swing out onto the main road, just as there’s a loud _pop_ in the air, followed by a fractional second of silence that stretches out into an eternity.

A large explosion blooms from within the house, a loud _BOOM_ piercing through the air and sending the windows of the first floor shattering out. Unphased by the flying glass, the heat, the noise, Sendak readjusts and bends down, picking up another artillery shell from the duffel bag.

He screws it in and this time aims it towards where their vehicles are and Shiro doesn’t think twice before dropping his foot on the pedal like lead as Lance starts to yell something incoherent. They tear down the road, and there’s another loud bang that cuts through in the distance. Cold with the adrenaline and fear, Shiro chances one glance back in the rearview mirror as they gun down the road. There’s a microscopic amount of relief in seeing a yellow pickup trail behind them, equally frantic.

He sees the farmhouse completely engulfed in flames, thick dark smoke curling into the air. The property glows hot and orange like a dying star and Sendak’s still standing, his figure receding in the distance as Shiro gets them the hell out of dodge.

Sendak’s silhouette waves.


	8. Chapter 8

****The Mustang screeches into the parking lot, and Keith wastes no time nor spares no energy in hopping out of the car and storming into the convenience store. Shiro’s covered the distance in half the amount of time, and the sun’s set completely He makes a beeline for the basement, throwing open the door and taking the steps three at a time. He shoves past the Blade members trying to stop him in the hallway, past Kolivan, past the doors. By the time he reaches Lotor’s cell and starts to punch in the code, everyone’s started to give him a wide berth.

The door slides open, and Keith barges in. Lotor’s sleeping form shifts a little on the bed, but Keith pays his state no mind.

“Get up,” Keith barks and without waiting, he grabs Lotor by the collar of his shirt. Keith yanks him up, ignoring the way the chains twist uncomfortably. They’ve been lengthened anyways, and Lotor looks mildly amused as he blinks awake.

“Have a fun trip?” Lotor says and Keith snarls, leaning in.

“Sendak blew up our house,” Keith spits out, and Lotor raises an eyebrow.

“Alright,” Lotor replies. “But did you find the Galra base?”

Keith lets him go in frustration, and Lotor continues to look like he’s watching some form of entertainment. Keith turns and runs his fingers through his hair, dragging through it dust and grime and whatever soot had been floating through the air when Sendak had destroyed their home. Shiro’s standing at the door of the cell, fists clenched, barely held back by Hunk and one of the members of the Blades.

“No one found us till today,” Keith turns on Lotor again. “Not till we went to go check out your location.”

“A coincidence,” Lotor says simply and the mere tone of his voice makes Keith’s hand twitch. “There’s no way for me to tell them where you’re going. I’m stuck in this cell, aren’t I?”

“The code to get into the base,” Keith says, adamant. “It alerted them.”

“That archaic thing?” Lotor snickers and Keith steps forward, more inclined to follow in on his instinct to punch through him. “If Sendak was there, it’s your fault. I have no clue where your shitty little shacks are.”

“How was Sendak there?” Keith demands, and the look Lotor gives him causes him to fist a hand around his shirt and yank him up to his feet. Lotor’s still got limited movement, but he’s taller this way, stacked high in an eerie way. “I saw you put a bullet through him. I saw you kill him in front of me. He should be dead.”

“He was,” Lotor presses his lips together, tilts his head to one side and then another.  “And now he’s not. He’s died more times than we can count. He’s a little clumsy but he’s my mother’s favourite.”

It’s not the answer Keith’s looking for, and it’s setting him on the edge. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“I mean,” Lotor stares down directly at Keith, before his eyes flit to the side. “He was dead, and now he’s not.”

Lotor delivers his words with a taunting voice that pinches Keith’s nerve hard. Keith wraps a hand around Lotor’s neck and squeezes, pushing down till Lotor’s seated again. He still has a scent of faint roadkill around him, wrapped in the smell of cheap soap. Keith can barely smell it; he still has the stench of gasoline and chemicals and a burning home stuck in his nose, in his brain.

“Start telling the truth,” Keith keeps his hand around Lotor’s neck, and squeezes. “Or else.”

“Or you’ll kill me?” Even though Lotor’s voice comes out choking, there’s still an easy cadence to it, like Keith’s prey that thinks he’s got the upper hand. Keith squeezes harder, till Lotor’s air supply is completely cut off.

“No,” he says darkly. “I’ll make sure you keep hurting.”

Keith means to let go, but he can’t. He stares into Lotor’s eyes as they flutter, squeezes his hand harder, wondering if he’s on the verge of crushing his windpipe. There’s rage burning in Keith, hotter than any fire, which had awoken at the sight of Sendak destroying the farm.

Two large hands grab Keith by the shoulder and tug. Lotor lets out a gasp for air as Kolivan pulls Keith off, and grasps at his own throat. The oily sheen on his face has grown thicker, and he glistens in the light of the cell. But Lotor looks unperturbed, for the most part.

“Did you inject Zethrid?” Lotor asks, voice hoarse as he massages his neck. “Is she up and running?”

“She’s awake,” Kolivan says, and refuses to let go of Keith. Keith tries to pull out of his hold, but the man has nearly a foot on almost everyone in the room. “She won’t talk to anyone, but she’s functioning like normal.”

“It’s the liquid. It’s a synthetic drug,” Lotor says, rotating his neck. When he tips it back, it bends almost unnaturally and lets out a loud _pop_ as he brings his head to level again. “Quintessence. It’s what keeps our engines running.”

There’s a silent type of disbelief that stretches over the room. Having seen Sendak, Keith’s the first one to break it.

“Us?” Keith asks, trying to shoulder Kolivan off. Kolivan lets go halfway, keeping one hand on Keith’s shoulder as if he’s a loose canon. “So you too?”

Shiro’s still at the entrance of the cell, and Lotor looks over at him. He seems unbothered by the audience he has, and he casts an assessing glance over everyone watching before he turns back to Keith. He plucks the hem of his cotton shirt, before he lifts it up completely, exposing his skin.

There’s a large scar stretching from the tip of his right shoulder down to his navel, as wide as Keith’s hand. There’s a series of misshapen circular scars sitting on his opposite shoulder, reaching down to his pectoral. By all accounts, none of this looks like something _anyone_ would survive.

“I was with my father and Alfor on a operation,” Lotor says. “Ask Allura. She’ll know what mission I’m talking about. I got flayed like a fish on the field, but my father had quintessence.”

He drops down his shirt, leaning forward as he speaks. “My mother had been developing it with my father as a regenerative agent. They had carried out one last modification before my father and I had been set out on the mission, and my father had injected me with it when I got taken down bad by a hostile."

Lotor face contorts into something funny, and his nose twitches like he's disgusted. It only stays for a second; he relaxes again as he continues to speak."Turns out, it did more than just make sure I’d live long enough for an air-evac. For all intents and purposes, I had died. I remember it too. One long moment of pain before everything shut down for good. And I had stayed like that for a good half hour before I was found. But my father had injected me with six times the dose when he found me. And my heart started beating again.”

Lotor interrupts himself with a cough, retching up the same sludge onto his hand that he had been coughing up before. The smell is significantly more putrid than before, and burns through Keith’s nose. Lotor examines his palm with some disinterest before continuing.

“I got an air-evac anyways, but by the time I reached a military hospital, I was fully functioning,” Lotor said. “Alfor had called it unnatural to bring someone back so long after they had died, but said he understood. He was less enthusiastic about Zarkon using it unauthorized on a few other of our fallen colleagues, and talking about selling it.”

Keith’s about to open his mouth and ask a question, but stops himself before he does. Lotor’s telling the story in a hypnotic manner, as if he’s under a spell, but if he’s telling the truth then—

Keith can’t even begin to think what path the synapses are firing in Lotor’s brain. He _still_ sounds like he’s a computer trying to sound human.

“My mother kept developing it when we returned,” Lotor forges onwards, turning his gaze back to Shiro. “But it’s hard to find people to test when you’re not directly on a battlefield. Thanks to your husband though, we’ve had an good crop of subjects for the past year.”

“What do you mean?” Shiro and Keith both ask in unison, and Lotor looks faintly amused.

“Anyone Shiro faced in the ring got sent in for quintessence testing,” Lotor replies, coughs. “Not everyone takes to it as well as I do, or Sendak does though. It would completely euthanize some of the subjects that were still living. They were the luckier ones.”

Lotor hacks, and spits on the ground. It’s a dark red with black clots, and it stinks like roadkill. He looks at it with a disgusted face before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“See that?” He nods towards the phlegm. “It’s not even fit for a dead rat to consume. Dying and coming back to life is the worst possible fate,” another dying cough and, “The side effects are shit too. None of the powers-that-be care though. The Galra plan to sell it, plan to use it as a way to gain control.”

“Why did they go through all the trouble to kidnap Shiro?”

“Shiro was for personal use,” Lotor replies. “My father had his eye on him for a while, actually. He said he never saw anyone rise through the ranks as fast as Shiro did. Not even me, despite the fact that it only took me a year more.”

“Personal use?” Keith’s thoroughly rankled by now. Lotor pauses, thinks. Smacks his lips loudly before leering at Keith.

“We honed him into something strong, something lethal,” he says, and raises his eyebrows. “Something perfect. He’s going to be our trophy.”

Keith lurches forward, and is yet again stopped by Kolivan. Shiro, however, breaks free of the Blade that had been holding him back. He shoves his way into the cell, and Keith sees Pidge slip past the others too.

“Was,” Keith says, trying to push off Kolivan. “They’re not getting him again.”

“But you want to go back right?” Lotor smiles, this time so large and unsettling that it looks like he’s going to break his face. “They’re hard people to run away from. You’ve got a better chance of just going to them. I can help you guys get in, if you want. I know you want Shiro’s memories back.”

“What do they want with me?” Shiro asks, and Lotor swings his head towards Shiro. A stray lock of hair falls in front of Lotor’s face.

“Well,” Lotor’s smile doesn’t break. “You were going to be _revolutionary._ We’ve tested it on Zethrid already, but she can’t look in a mirror. It’s almost disgusting.”

There’s something increasingly off about Lotor; the sheen around his skin has grown thicker, and a drop forms at the under of his jaw. It drops down onto Lotor’s Blades-issued cheap white cotton shirt, and leaves a greenish-yellow bloom in its wake.

“You are going to be my daddy’s new skin suit,” Lotor says, and his voice starts to crack. “In with the old, out with the new. Zarkon’s brain in your body, fused together, dead in all ways but brought to life with quintessence.”

He coughs again, and this time the rattle of it reverberates in the room. He hunches over and coughs again, this time so hard that Keith thinks he’s going to fracture a rib. If his body’s in any condition to do so.

“Dead in all ways but brought to life with quintessence,” Lotor repeats, coughs again. It sounds like he’s talking through a mouthful of mucus. “With quintessence. Dead in all ways but brought to life with quintessence.”

“Uh,” Lance says, tried to tip toe and take a look through the opening of the cell. “Is he broken?”

Lotor opens his mouth, seemingly to repeat himself. He takes a deep inhale in.

And starts to scream.

It’s loud and pained and the most torturous thing Keith’s heard. It stuns him, rooting him to the spot as suddenly he’s getting pushed aside so that Kolivan and his colleagues can rush to Lotor’s side. Lotor’s eyes roll back, revealing deeper yellow sclera with dark red veins creeping up. His scream chokes itself off and he starts to shake violently.

Kolivan and Ulaz immediately break his chains, unlocking his shackles as Lotor starts to convulse hard, back arching painfully as he falls back onto the bed. Ulaz lifts up his legs as he keeps shaking, and Lotor’s head rolls to the side. It’s unlike anything Keith’s ever seen before; he’s still trying to process Lotor calling himself a dead man.

It’s a level of unbelievability that’s hammering away at his brain, demanding to be let in as it takes an axe to the door. A moment of clarity hits Keith like a tidal wave; he saw Sendak get a bullet in the brain, saw Sendak blow up his house after. Lotor’s got the marks of something he shouldn’t have survive. They want to kill Shiro and bring him back as someone else.

Keith watches in a haze as Allura says something in the distance. He looks around and makes eye contact with Shiro, who looks as distant as Keith feels. Allura runs towards the bed with something in her hands; it’s a syringe with the familiar liquid. Kolivan and Ulaz hold Lotor down and Allura wrenches Lotor’s arm into submission before injecting it quintessence.

Lotor’s body goes lax immediately, before his eyes shoot open and he inhales deeply. He starts to cough again, and the spit that comes out this time is pure black. His eyes widen and he rolls his head toward the wall before he rolls it back to the other side and makes eye contact with Keith directly. The look is eerie and pleaful. Keith tries very hard to drown out the fear and dread and unease plucking away at in his gut on a contrabass.

Lotor’s face relaxes, and his eyes drop to a half-lidded state. Whatever was in his eyes before is no longer here, and when he coughs again, it’s completely normal.

“You do need it,” Keith says, finally finding his words again and Lotor rasps when he speaks, sounding fully human for the first time since Keith’s seen him.

“I fucking hate it," Lotor says, voice raw. “Do you know what it’s like being dead and alive at the same time? You’re in the driver’s seat, your hands are tied behind your back while you drive through a void.”

Lotor wipes the back of his mouth, licks the black dribble off his lips before he continues. “It eats away at you and regurgitates it and that’s the shit that keeps you alive. You’re barely a step above being a corpse.” Another deep inhale and then, “Use me.”

“What do you mean?” This time it’s Allura that speaks. Her voice is taut like a bow, fraught with something indiscernible that Keith reads as mistrust.

“Use me to get in. Use me to sneak Shiro in,” Lotor says. “I’ll help you.”

“Why the fuck should we trust you?” Pidge says. She’s been pressed to the wall the entire time, arms crossed over her chest. It’s the first time she’s spoken in a while, and her voice shakes over the words.

“I’m well past my expiry date,” Lotor replies. “I don’t want to be alive. I don’t feel alive. My brain’s breaking down slower than the rest of me so I can _feel_ myself rotting.”

He sounds more human now, Keith thinks. He sounds like he’s begging. And Keith doesn’t know whether to trust it or not. He doesn’t think he does, doesn’t think they should use Lotor. But he’s in a room full of people determined to go to the Galra base, determined to get Shiro’s memories back and spring the Holts and peel away the skin to expose the Galra to the world. He should have that determination too, he knows that. Keith has enough anger in him that it should come as second nature. Yet, there’s something in him that wants to run far, _far_ away.

“Why do they keep you alive?” Keith asks, and Lotor rolls his head back to look up at the ceiling.

“The devil works hard,” Lotor says, sounding incredibly bitter. “But his wife works harder.”

 

* * *

 

They have to move fast.

It’s an unanimous decision reached as soon as everyone converges in the dingy filing room that they’re using as an impromptu meeting room. Everyone in Keith’s group is visibly shaken at the destruction of their home base; Allura and Pidge had worked hard to ensure that no one would trace them back to the barn, but it’s left in ashes now. Sendak’s back from the dead— and that’s a thing that can happen. Or maybe Lotor’s lying and Sendak’s just a roach that refuses to die. Either ways, Keith’s staring down something he didn’t even know was _possible_.

“If they’ve blown up the farm house, there’s no way of telling what they’ll do next,” Allura says, as Pidge opens up the floor plan of the place on a laptop. “If we don’t act fast, we’re basically inviting them to destroy more of our things.”

Keith’s bike is gone. Pidge’s bike and Shiro’s pickup are gone. The cab of the giant truck Allura and Coran had first rode in on has been destroyed as well. They’re down to a pickup, a Firebird, and a Mustang without a door. The Blades have resources they can use and Keith wonders how much of this is going to be done on his own team’s terms.

That is of course, if they come to an agreement amongst each other.

Lance wants to blow the facility up. If they get caught, Pidge argues, they’re going to come out looking like domestic terrorists and not some vigilante heroes. There’s no way anyone is going to publicly admit to believing stories of a scientific facility housing human fighting rings and the undead, especially if the facility’s burned to the ashes. Given the Blades’ status as a secluded organization and the profiles of everyone on Keith’s team, they’re going to look like some sort of doomsday cult gone off the edge.

Keith agrees for the most part. He knows when Pidge tells him that they need to make sure they go in and do things like collect evidence, steal records, rescue people without leveling the entire facility, she’s saying it so that they can have a longer lasting positive outcome. However, he too wants to rain destruction down on the Galra, preferably with as much fire as possible. The fear he feels fuels the anger that’s been long brewing in him, and Keith knows it’s all spiraling towards a head. Pidge asks his opinion, and maybe he doesn’t sound sincere in the way he responds, maybe she can tell his heart’s kind of set on something that objectively could have some stunningly horrible repercussions, because they get into a shouting match about it that’s broken up by Allura firmly stating there will be no hellfire to be had. No matter how much revenge she wants to reap for the destruction of her family’s old home.

The Blades tell them that whatever their desired outcome, they need to think ahead of themselves by ten steps. The Galra are smart, the Galra are capable, the Galra are brutal. The Galra have reanimated corpses, the Galra want Shiro to be some sort of Frankenstein's monster for them. They can offer resources, but they can only offer this once; if they’re going to launch something against the Galra, this will be it. There’s no turning back.

They form a game plan. It’s still going to need them to interrogate Lotor further, and Keith’s still got to come to terms with knowing that they’re walking into the devil’s trap. It scares him that he very well may be on the brink of losing Shiro again if this goes south. And this time, in a more permanent way. He can’t stop thinking about it, even when they break for the night and decide everything will be better if they get some sort of rest.

The Blades give them a place to stay for the night. They’ve got a series of small businesses that they have members stationed at, including a truckstop motel off the side of the freeway. A large _NO VACANCY_ sign hangs underneath the bright neon sign promising free wifi, despite there being only three cars in the parking lot. Kolivan assures Keith that the rest of the rooms are filled with members of the Blades, and that his team can sleep easy for the night.

It’ll be needed, he adds in a gruff low tone, and it hits Keith for the tenth time in as many minutes that they’re moving in on the Galra and _fast_.

Keith’s concerned about how easily accessible they are, but Hunk dryly reminds him that the one place the Galra managed to get the one-up on them had been the most secluded location. Allura’s got a steeled look in her eyes when Hunk says this, and Keith knows loss is carving her out from the inside as well.

They each get their own room. Shiro’s is nestled between Keith’s and the emergency exit, directly across from Hunk’s.

Keith knows he should go talk to Shiro. The conversation in the car had been heavy handed, and it’s something he can’t put off in the hopes that they might get to it later. He thinks about doing it as they each go to their own room, exhausted and mentally worn out, but Shiro just gives him a short tight smile and a brief goodnight before he retreats behind the door. It’s not a very open interaction, so Keith decides that maybe he has to save it for later.

Except there is no opportunity for later. No matter how awkward it is, Keith thinks he might have to do it now.

Keith knows that, comes to terms with it when he’s undressing in his washroom. He thinks about Sendak’s invitation, and knows that whatever is waiting for them on the other side is a lot more lethal than any of them can comprehend. He knows he’s going to give it his all, but he doesn’t know what kind of threat he poses to a group of people that have learned how to pry open the grip of death. Maybe Shiro will get his memories back, maybe Shiro will make it out of there, Keith’s going to do his best to ensure that. He doesn’t know if he’s going to make it out himself. He trusts the others, but he knows he won’t let anyone take a fall for him.

Keith doesn’t quite feel like a dead man walking, he thinks as he turns the handle on the tap to turn on the shower. But he doesn’t quite feel like he has much time as he thinks he does.

The cold spray he steps into startles him out of his thoughts, causing him to jump a little. It pulls Keith out of his thoughts and he leans forward, tries to turn the hot water tap on to no avail. The frigid chill of it reaches to his core, and for a few moments, Keith stands in it and shivers. It’s not the worst conditions he’s showered in, but the water doesn’t get any warmer. He stares at the black grouting of the tiles, shudders under the cold again and turns the tap further.

It’s to no avail— the shower stays cold against his skin, and Keith contemplates toughing it out. He watches helplessly as the dirt and grime from the past two days swirl down the drain, carrying with it a dark red iron from where blood has dried over. The cold causes him to sniff miserably, and it gives him an idea. An opening.

It’s not an intelligent one, but it’s one he decides to follow through on anyways.

Ten minutes later finds him standing in front of Shiro’s door, working up the courage and mental wherewithal to knock. Keith's exhausted. They all are, but Keith feels like he has lived a thousand lifetimes. The farm's been blown up. The dead come back to life. Shiro doesn't remember their past, yet has still found a way to fall for Keith. Somehow. He says it’s nothing to do with the fact that they’re married, and Keith hasn’t known Shiro to tell a lie, not over something like this.

Keith thinks about this as he stands in front of the dark blue door into Shiro’s room. Mulls over what Shiro’s said about his feelings being genuine. Thinks about Shiro liking him, but Shiro never loving him again. Wonders how much it matters anymore. Keith hates any talk of fate, but it would be disingenuous of him to ignore how Shiro has been drawn back to him, how Shiro has claimed that it had happened before he found out they were married.

He’s lost a lot already. The only thing he’s gained back is Shiro, who’s ready to give some of himself to Keith. Keith figures that he’ll take what he can get, before he loses all opportunity to do so. He knocks on the door, the sound weak and uncertain.

A long moment stretches over him, before he hears rustling on the other end. It quietens down, so Keith knocks again, louder this time. It’s not long after that that the door slowly creaks open a third of the way. Shiro stands in the doorway, towel slung around his neck. His damp hair glistens, and Keith has an idea of why he ran out of warm water in his room.

“Hey,” Shiro says. “What’s up?”

“My room doesn’t have any hot water,” Keith says, and gestures towards the clothes he’s slung over his shoulder. They’ve requisitioned ugly tourism shirts and sweatpants courtesy of the Blades, and Keith’s glad he’s going to get a chance to get out of clothes that smell like baked dirt and old sweat, even if it’s just for a night.

For a second, Shiro looks like he rightfully doesn’t quite believe that this would be something Keith would find a problem with. But he opens the door fully anyways, moving out of the way to let Keith in. The television is turned onto a classic cartoon channel, and Yosemite Sam’s grating voice fills the room, “ _I’m the fastest gun north, south, east and west of the Pecos”_. Keith tries to say something to Shiro as he takes off his shoes but the words get stuck so he mutters a short “Thanks” before he heads into the shower.

One of the bathroom lights flicker when he turns it on, and Keith catches his reflection in the mirror. He can only look for a moment— he’s not been one to really examine himself, and he has no desire to look at a gaunt and beat up version of himself. The swelling under his right eye has gone down, but the bruising has yet to lighten up. He peels off his shirt and catches the road rash and bruises and scars from earlier skirmishes, and turns his head away from the mirror.

It makes him angry to see the marks in the reflection as he turns on the shower, reminds him of how it had taken so little for Zethrid to bring him to his knees. For a fleeting moment, he had helplessly thought he had been staring into the face of the end and she had known, had used it to wail on him and beat him down. It had been a moment of foreign cowardice that had stretched into days of pain.

The lukewarm water sluices over his body as he thinks, and it makes Keith shiver harder than he had under his cold shower. It's unnerving to know that Shiro is right outside, and Keith starts to curse himself for coming here to begin with. He knows he can easily just leave right after this, thank Shiro and tell him he’ll see him in the morning and have it end at that. The thought of it not going any further than that makes Keith’s chest tighten.

He slicks the motel shampoo through his hair, the cool mint of it seeping into his scalp. It relaxes him fractionally, and he barely notices as the water gets colder. The flickering light fuses, leaving the bathroom bathed in a weak orange light. Keith had gotten most of the dirt out in his first shower, but he takes his time, scrubbing every inch of his skin with the soap bar. The harder he presses into his skin, the more he rubs himself raw, the less he has to think about having to talk to Shiro.

He thinks about the sincerity with which Shiro told Keith that what he felt was independent of all that he had found. Keith thinks of Sendak with a halo of fire behind him, cackling into the night with a face that hadn’t been pieced back together yet. He thinks of people torn from life, only to be brought back. He thinks about how it’s not been hard for him to accept it.

And then he thinks about how hard it has been to accept that Shiro feels anything for Keith, how maybe Keith’s been unknowingly trying to protect himself by being hard headed about it all. In a moment of divine clarity, Keith thinks that he’s allowed to have this. He’s allowed to have Shiro, even if it’s only for a short while, even if they’re adrift in muddy waters.

Keith stands under the spray for a few more minutes, till his fingers start to prune. The water’s frigid again by then but he’s used to it, feels nothing of it when he turns off the tap. His focus is singular as he dries off and steps into his clothes for the night. He bunches up his dirty jeans and shirt into his hands, and counts to ten before he steps out of the bathroom.

The television is still on, this time changed to a local news station. Shiro’s sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the screen as the late night anchor interviews a local and loud evangelical minister. His eyes don’t flit with the movement of the people on the TV. Keith’s about to pause and mull over what to say, but he decides to dump his clothes on the small stool by the door and enter the larger room area.

“Hey,” Keith says, making sure he’s loud enough to be heard this time. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Shiro looks at the television with great concentration as he replies. “Nervous, but yeah. I’m okay.”

There’s a temptation within Keith to pick at that instead. If he can grasp the loose threads of whatever weight Shiro has in those words, then maybe he can—

“Me too,” Keith cuts his own train of thought off before it gets away from him. He’s not going to divert himself what he wants to say, lest this be the only chance he gets to say it. “I have no idea what we’re facing.”

“We’re facing people who can raise each other from the dead,” Shiro says dryly. “Kind of hard to figure out how to put a bullet in that.”

“At least it’s not some bullshit magic thing,” Keith points out, and Shiro lets out a short laugh. “Hey, it could have been.”

“It might as well be,” Shiro says. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around Lotor and Sendak.”

“Better not to,” Keith says, and takes another step into the room. It’s dark, with only the yellow light of lamp and the blue of the television screen lighting up the crappy motel wallpaper. “The less we think about it, the better.”

“You seem to take it okay,” Shiro points out, and he finally tears his eyes away from the screen. He shuffles over a little on his bed, seemingly to make space, but Keith’s rooted to where he stands. “Hunk threw up three separate times.”

“In the grand scheme of things,” Keith says, tries to turn his voice into something more wry. “Given everything else that we’ve found out, would you expect any less?”

 _That_ tugs the corners of Shiro’s mouth up enough that Keith feels slightly more emboldened. Shiro shakes his head and though Keith still doesn’t take a seat beside him, his shoulders do relax a little. He runs a hand through his own damp hair, slicking it back before he talks again.

“Shiro,” Keith starts, and closes his eyes when Shiro’s gaze snaps directly to his. “About what you said in the car.”

Predictably, it takes a moment before Shiro replies with a tentative “Yes?” that has Keith wanting to hightail it out of the room. He steels himself though, because if he runs now, there won’t be any going back.

“I’m not holding you to any standard,” Keith exhales and opens his eyes. “It never crossed my mind that you’re not the man I— it’s never crossed my mind that you’re not the man I married. You _have_ changed. A lot. But it’s never crossed my mind that you’re not Shiro.”

“Okay,” Shiro sits with his shoulders hunched, not making eye contact with Keith anymore. Keith presses on.

“It’s not fair to you,” Keith continues. “To make an assumption about why you feel the way you feel, just because I’m scared.”

“Scared of what?” Shiro asks, leaning forward from where he sits.

“Losing you again,” Keith steps forward, digs his hands into the pocket of his sweats. “Not by dying, but if you fall out of…”

Keith trails off, unsure how to finish the sentence without sounding presumptuous. Shiro looks slightly surprised, and Keith shakes his head lightly before he moves on.

“I’m not holding you to any standard,” Keith repeats, drops his gaze to his feet. “I’ve been holding myself to one, one that I keep on failing. One that makes me think I’m not worth you liking me again.”

“Keith,” Shiro starts, but Keith cuts him off before he loses his confidence completely.

“I’ve come to terms with that though,” Keith says earnestly. “I’ve tried to parse and rank how I feel, and my- my love for you sits above everything else, including my own insecurity. You might have figured that already, but it took me some time.”

“Your love for me,” Shiro repeats as he slowly rises up to his feet. Keith swallows, nods again, fights every urge to retreat as Shiro approaches him.

“You want me?” Shiro asks, keeping a cautious distance. Keith can see the uncertainty in the way he holds his body, and knows he can’t let this go. He nods again. Shiro hesitates but steps in, raising his hand but aborting the move part way. He looks at Keith, still so unsure, so Keith reaches out and circles a metal wrist.

“I do,” he says, and brings both their hands down, drawing Shiro in. Despite the whirlwind, this feels simple. “If you’ll have me.”

There’s a breath of a moment where Shiro looks at Keith with careful hope, and it’s all that Keith needs to close the distance. He pulls his punches with the kiss, leaning up to press his lips against Shiro’s in a chaste but firm reiteration of what he said. Shiro freezes and Keith draws back immediately, concerned. He lets go of Shiro and tries to step out of his space but Shiro grabs him by the elbow and pulls him closer towards him.

“If you think you’re going to run away again,” Shiro says, voice so low it’s almost a whisper. “At this point or any other point. Tell me now.”

“I won’t,” Keith says honestly, wrapping his hands around Shiro’s biceps even though it’s growing evidently clearer that neither of them have plans to move.“I don’t want to.”

“I can’t explain it,” Shiro says. “But I feel it too. I don’t know if it’s something that stayed with me despite what the Galra did. But I can’t imagine any of this without you. I can’t imagine anything ahead without you.”

The words wrap themselves around Keith’s heart with rope and squeeze, tightening his chest. His heart beats loud like a drum, part with the moment and part with the dread of the encroaching unknown. Panic starts to rise within him, fear that he’ll say something to mess this up, that somehow Keith will find himself pushing Shiro away again despite it all.

“I can’t let you go,” he blurts out, tightening the grip he has on Shiro’s arms. “No matter what happens, I won’t ever be able to let you go.”

Shiro looks down on him, wide eyed and tense like Keith could run away any moment. Or that Shiro wanted to run away any moment. It’s late, _so_ late, and they’re both exhausted, but Keith can’t imagine being anywhere else in the moment, being looked at by Shiro like a revelation. He’s scared for them both, but in the moment he feels so young again.

“Let me learn how to love you again,” Shiro says, sliding his hand up to cradle the side of Keith’s face. Shiro’s started to move Keith backwards, and Keith only just registers it. “In whatever time we have.”

“Yeah,” Keith leans into the touch, kisses the palm and exhales against the rough and hardened skin. “Yeah.”

Keith’s back hits the wall with a _thud_ just as Shiro moves forward into a crushing kiss, pinning Keith with a hand on each elbow. Keith goes slack as Shiro kisses him with a hard intensity and presses him into cheap wallpaper. He breaks out of Shiro’s hold to encircle his arms around his waist and draw his whole body closer, and Shiro uses the opportunity to bracket Keith with his arms against the wall.

Keith can’t help but keep taking, can’t help but grow hungrier with the kiss. He tells himself that this is what he deserves, that Shiro wants it just as bad, that Shiro’s getting so lost in it that Keith can feel the bite of teeth against his bottom lip. His heart threatens to beat out of his chest and he lets it, lets himself give in completely.

Shiro kisses him fiercely, slides one of his hands down the wall till it’s cupping Keith’s face and angling his jaw for him. Briefly, Keith thinks that some things will always be innate, down to the very way they take care of each other. Then he pushes it out of his mind, because he has Shiro here, has Shiro now, will accept Shiro as he is and start something new with him no matter how short of a time they get.

Keith doesn’t know he’s stopped breathing till Shiro breaks away. Keith pants against his mouth, and Shiro kisses his top lip before pressing his forehead against Keith’s.

“Is this okay?” Shiro asks, running a thumb over Keith's lower lip. Keith nods into the touch.

They meet again in a slow and languid kiss and Keith firmly anchors himself in the moment, doesn't drift away while Shiro moves his lips against Keith's in a new way. He slides his hands up Shiro’s back and draws him closer till they’re a solid line against each other. They break apart, and Keith kisses Shiro’s cheek before moving to the nook of his jaw. Shiro exhales, tilts his head, and Keith lays a trail across his jaw.

“Can I stay the night?” Keith breathes in between the kisses, question tentative. It’s forward but his heart’s racing and Shiro replies by pushing them off the wall. Keith feels himself getting walked backwards till the back of his calves hit a mattress, and he folds before Shiro can guide him down. Keith sinks into the bed and Shiro follows, gently pushing them up the mattress till Keith’s legs aren’t dangling over the edge anymore.

It’s different from the last time they slept together; Keith’s not filled with as much doubt, isn’t warring with a side of him that’s telling him _wrong wrong wrong_. He allows himself to feel the way the muscles of Shiro’s back flex under his shirt as he dips down to press his lips against Keith’s adam’s apple. Keith allows himself to sink into the feeling of being touched again by the man he loves. Shiro moves his lower half up, spreading Keith’s legs further, and Keith feels the pull in his gut that tells him to take as much as he can get.

He hooks a leg around the back of Shiro’s thighs and pulls him closer, pulls him down as Shiro finishes his path from Keith’s neck up to his mouth again. This time it’s slick, and Keith feels the heavy weight of Shiro’s tongue press past the seam of his mouth. Keith lets him in and skims his hands over Shiro’s sides, bunching up the cheap cotton material.

Shiro sits back on his haunches, letting a hand drag down Keith’s front. He plucks at the hem of his own shirt, and slowly starts to pull it off when Keith nods. He throws the shirt to the side and looks down at Keith, hesitant.

Keith hadn’t gotten a proper chance to look before, when they had been on the run. But now he can see the new muscle that makes Shiro look so much bigger, the barrage of scars marking up his body and twisting across his skin in a morbid story. He’s backlit by the soft flickering glow from the television, and Keith has the air knocked out of him when he realizes that he’s lucky. This is Shiro, alive and breathing and solid presence pushing up Keith’s shirt till Keith’s lifts his arms and lets him take it off. Before Shiro can say anything further, before Keith changes his mind, Keith surges up to grab Shiro and yank him down into another heady kiss.

It’s skin on skin after, and every time Shiro tries to be careful around Keith’s bruising, Keith pulls him in closer. They move with none of the rush of people who are facing down a deadly task. Keith pushes up and flips them over so that he can kiss a line down his sternum and map the planes of Shiro’s body with his mouth. Shiro’s hands are large and sure on his thighs, squeezing every time Keith nips and runs his teeth over skin. Keith feels a thumb hook into the waistband of his pants and he raises to his knees, letting Shiro tug them down.

Shiro doesn’t take long to follow, and Keith finds himself on his back again, a thigh slotted between his legs as he grinds down on it. Shiro kisses him chastely as he holds onto Keith’s hips and rolls him against thick muscle, and Keith tries to reach and wrap a hand around Shiro in an echo of their last time.

Shiro moves into the touch and groans but it’s not enough for Keith, not enough for how reckless he’s feeling and how intemperate he’s becoming. So he pushes Shiro off for a moment, and rolls onto his belly so that he can reach for the bedside drawer with a small prayer that this truckstop motel’s the same as all the other one’s he’s had to move his life through.

Keith makes a noise of victory when he finds what he’s looking for, and throws the wrappers onto the bed. Shiro’s eyes widen and Keith sits up and reaches for him, pushing a bottle into his palm. He voices his request, nervous that Shiro will think they’re doing too much, but Shiro blinks and nods and pushes Keith down onto the bed again. This time, they meet with more urgency, and Keith tries to relax as much as he can as feels something slick and cold between his legs.

It might hurt in the morning, but the more Shiro opens Keith up, the more Keith aches for it. Shiro detaches from his lips and shifts down, stopping to suck a soft bruise onto Keith’s hipbone before moving further. Keith feels the wet warmth of Shiro’s mouth around him, feels the tentative swipe of a tongue and has to bite his knuckles to stifle his sounds as Shiro works him with both his mouth and his hands.

He scrunches his eyes shut, pouring in all his concentration on not yanking on Shiro’s hair too hard, and doesn’t open them till Shiro’s sliding a hand under him and flipping him onto his stomach. Shiro pushes a pillow under Keith’s hips and Keith lets out a half-groan at the friction while Shiro hitches him up.

“Are you sure?” Shiro asks, and Keith nods. He feels a rough palm gently slide up his spine before scratching soothing fingers into the nape of his neck. Keith lets out a long exhale through his nose with the touch, one that cuts off abruptly as Shiro starts to push in.

Keith swears at the stretch and Shiro murmurs encouragement as he pushes in further, rocking in slowly and deliberately. It’s been a long time for Keith but he’s more than willing to take Shiro as much as he can, and he tries to shift his hips back onto Shiro to speed up the process.

“Easy,” Shiro tries to temper him by squeezing his hip, but that just makes Keith starve for it. Any sort of reasoning has quickly dissolved in favour of zeroing in on the fullness of it and how _good_ Shiro feels. By the time Shiro bottoms out, Keith’s head is hanging low between his shoulders, and all he can pant out is Shiro’s name.

Testing, Shiro slides out part way before pushing back in to Keith, and the drag sends sparks up through Keith’s spine. It’s heady and it’s dizzying and Keith begs for it again. Shiro complies, and even though it’s still cautious, Keith’s knuckles go white from where they're fisted in the sheets.

Shiro slowly finds a rhythm against Keith, shifting the mattress gently underneath them as he moves in him. The pain’s quickly giving away to feeling warm and liquid, and Keith tries to bury the sounds he makes into the pillow. It’s good, it’s _so_ good, it’s everything Keith’s missed and needed and desired and thought he’d never be able to feel again. Shiro’s familiar and new at the same time, and in this moment, everything else falls away. All Keith knows in his world is that Shiro is with him and Shiro wants him and he’s allowed to want Shiro back.

Shiro pushes him between the shoulder blades, pressing him down into the mattress as he hikes Keith's hips up further. Shiro thrusts in at the new angle and Keith lets go of all coherent thought in favour of a broken moan and a plea for more. Shiro acquiesces, and all notions of going slow for the rest of the night quickly get thrown out the window.

“Good?” Shiro asks, breathless as he digs his fingers into a bruising grip. Keith’s back arches and Shiro’s breathing stutters as Shiro picks up the pace, steady and heavy against Keith.

“Yeah,” Keith manages to choke the words out as he pushes back to meet Shiro. He feels warm air ghosting over his neck as Shiro curls over him, and feels lips press gently against the crook of his shoulder in counterpoint to the steadily faster pace Shiro’s taking him at. Keith reaches down for himself, desperate to touch, but Shiro grabs his wrist and wrenches it to the side.

“Can I—” Shiro starts, and Keith’s agreeing before Shiro even finishes his sentence. Shiro flattens out on top of him and slides a hand under him, keeping him steady as Shiro rolls them onto their sides, still joined. He gives an experimental thrust, angles them again till his movements has Keith sharply sucking in air.

He’s fettered to Shiro like this. Keith melts back into the broad chest as Shiro spans his hand across Keith’s chest and pinches the skin. He kisses Keith’s neck as he grinds in, and Keith turns his head towards him in a silent request.

“Closer to you like this,” Shiro murmurs before he grants Keith his wish, capturing him in a wet kiss that has little finesse. “Want more of you.”

“You have all of me,” Keith says, and Shiro groans into his mouth as he moves in Keith. Keith feels completely enveloped this way, completely surrounded by Shiro and completely consumed. Shiro slides a hand down his ribs and squeezes the junction of his thigh before pushing his hand under Keith’s knee. He draws Keith's leg up so that he can push in deeper and Keith muffles a yell into his mouth.

“You feel so good,” Shiro’s breath runs hot over his skin, and is followed by tongue and teeth and lips. “Gonna make you feel so good.”

Keith can’t do anything but moan his name in return, and Shiro finally wraps a hand around him and starts to pull him. Keith’s overstimulated from the touch, the kisses, the feeling of having Shiro like _this_ after so long that he starts to shudder as Shiro strokes him, drawing to the edge perilously fast.

“I’m gonna-” Keith starts, and Shiro squeezes his hand and tugs him hard, causing him to let out a short cry. “ _Ah_ — Shiro, I’m gonna-”

“I’ve got you,” Shiro says, and thrusts up so hard that it sends them both forward. Keith sees stars as he finds himself on his belly again, Shiro completely draped over him. Heat and sweat radiates between them and Keith’s never been taken so thoroughly.

One of Keith’s hands blindly grasp the sheets and Shiro closes his own over it, intertwining his metal fingers with Keith’s as he snaps hard and fast into Keith. The only thing Keith can do is chant Shiro’s name, louder as Shiro’s other hand finds its way into the minimal space between Keith and the bed.

Keith barely hears Shiro saying his as well as he feels the friction of his hand around him again. It unravels him fast and before Keith knows what’s happening, he’s scrunching his eyes shut and letting out a loud sound as he comes. It’s more intense than last time, and Keith can see the colours dancing behind his eyelids as Shiro rides him out, keeps moving in him till he’s reaching his own end.

Shiro stutters in him, and faintly Keith knows that he’s going to have handprints on him from how hard Shiro’s been holding on. His old bruises ache, but he pays no attention to them as Shiro drops into dead weight on top of them. They’re both panting loudly, trying to catch their breath, and it’s not till Keith makes a sound of discomfort that they start to move.

Shiro props himself up and pulls carefully slow out of Keith. The emptiness is uncomfortable but it’s muted by how weak and good and thoroughly taken the rest of Keith’s body feels. He rolls over on his own volition, feeling the ache down to his toes, and Shiro keeps hovering above him.

“Are you okay?” Shiro asks gently. Sweat has plastered his bangs to his forehead, and his face is flushed red. He looks slightly awestruck and Keith’s fiercely reminded of the first time they had ever done this, of the first time Shiro had been so kind and gentle and how despite Keith’s inexperience, he had managed to quickly flip Shiro into something more hungry.

Keith reaches up to push Shiro’s hair off his face and stare up into his darkened eyes. He might be stupid from riding the high, but Keith doesn’t feel as terrified. Not as much as before, anyways. Because he’s beat off death for Shiro already, and he feels ready to leave it riven in his wake for this man.

The anxiety of finding him, the pain brought on by everything that followed and the heartbreak that’s loomed over Keith like a dark cloud— none of this exists in the moment. Only this man, this man for whom he would lay this life down for and the next, this man who was stolen from him but found his way back to Keith.

“Yeah,” Keith says and cups Shiro’s jaw, tugging him down. “Come here.”


	9. Chapter 9

“We’re forty minutes out,” Hunk’s voice crackles over the scanner and Allura grunts in acknowledgement. Shiro takes a look in the rearview mirror; the road behind them is still empty and the sky is bright blue in the late afternoon sun. They still have fifteen minutes.

He’s in a black SUV with Allura and Pidge, pulled off on the gravel shoulder of a poorly kept road. They still have twelve minutes and twenty four seconds left till they have to move. Despite the AC running, Shiro feels uncomfortably warm under the collar of his uniform.

Shiro’s beyond nervous. He doesn’t know if he’s prepared, doesn’t know if muscle memory alone is enough for him to fight off any problems they may face. Doesn’t know if he’s actually sharp enough to pull this off. He knows that he has to be, but Shiro keeps getting thrown into a private panic about whether or not he’s going to be what fails them.

It doesn’t help that Keith’s in a different car, speeding down with Hunk, Kolivan, and Lotor. They’re going to the Galra headquarters, ready to give Lotor back to his people, ready to trade and to create a distraction so that Shiro can break in and get his memories back. The Galra, according to Lotor, are hyper aware of Keith’s presence. If he sends someone else to hand over Lotor, they’re going to double down on security on the assumption that Keith’s trying to sneak in.

So instead, Keith’s going to roll up to the front door of the facility and try to use Lotor as a bargaining chip while Shiro sneaks into the building with Pidge. Allura and Lance will help them get in and then fall back, keeping watch at different posts. Lotor’s given them the location of the lab they they need to break into, and the exact location of the area which Sam Holt is restricted to. Shiro doesn’t trust it, but Lotor’s given them verbal floor plans which match the data that Pidge’s trackers had picked up. He had given them the correct entry codes last time, and had handed over his phone to Kolivan and Ulaz. They’ve extracted enough information to find out how to sneak Shiro in.

So now they wait.

They have eleven and a half minutes left now and Pidge hums from the back seat. Shiro shifts, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He’s trying to keep himself calm and his mind inadvertently drifts towards Keith.

He’s still trying to process their reconciliation. Shiro had thought that Keith would have continued to keep him at an arm’s distance but had a gut feeling that Keith was feeling as pragmatic about their situation as Shiro was. Having Keith the way he gave himself to Shiro untied whatever knot of desire had been balling up in him, but it didn’t abate anything in him.

Shiro wants him more now, wants to survive this and build something new with Keith, regardless of whether or not he gets his memories back. Here he has a man with an inbuilt devotion to Shiro  that Shiro can’t even begin to fathom how he earned. In turn, Shiro has a burning need to show him the worship and love he deserves. His pull towards Keith is so ingrained in him that he can’t imagine not having it.

After they woke up in the morning, they didn’t have much time. Everyone had kicked into gear and they were no exception. But Keith had stolen five minutes for them before they left their room, five minutes to kiss and touch and tell Shiro that it would be alright. It was as much for himself as it had been for Shiro, so Shiro had done the same, had pressed Keith against the door of the motel and told him that it’d be fine, that they’d find their way to each other.

Earlier, in between drifting awake, Shiro had been washed into a sense of intimacy. Keith had been nestled against him, bare chest rising and falling as he slept. Shiro had shifted a little in the sheets, and Keith had murmured something unintelligible into his skin as Shiro adjusted himself. It had felt right, had felt good to have Keith with him, had felt _familiar_.

For a fleeting moment, Shiro had a vision of running his fingers through shorter hair as Keith looked up at him lazily. Shiro saw himself saying something about Keith needing to get a haircut before it grew out of regulation, and Keith saying something biting and funny to the effect of not caring. The moment had gone as soon as it had come, fading into obscurity like it had never happened. The Keith that had been resting his head on Shiro’s chest had longer hair, had a thick scar on his shoulder, looked worried even as he slept.

He hasn’t told Keith yet, hasn’t told anyone out of the need to not get hopes up. But Shiro has held onto the memory, replays it in his head as they wait on the side of an unmarked road. It’s been the first faint memory he’s had of the past that hasn’t been something that’s made him queasy to the core like Sendak did. There’s barely anything to it, and it may as well just have been a dream, but the desire to unpack more of the same has been one of the things keeping Shiro afloat. He’s been thinking about it all morning, from the time they had gotten up to the time that Keith had given him a private kiss goodbye while the others loaded the cars.

“Incoming,” Allura says, and Shiro looks in the rearview mirror again. In the distance, a small transport truck roars, twenty seconds away from the time Lotor had said it would be incoming. Shiro turns on the ignition for the SUV, and waits.

The truck zips by them, and Allura flicks on a switch on the dashboard. The sound of a siren blares loud and clear, and the blue and red flashing lights turn on as Shiro pulls onto the road and starts to accelerate. The truck slows down and pulls over to the side of the road, coming to a halt, and Allura pages Lance on the radio to tell him to stand down from where he’s perched in the distance behind some bushes.

They pull up behind the transport truck, and Shiro adjusts his uniform. It’s a little tight for comfort, but they couldn’t exactly be picky with the beige police uniforms the Blades had procured for them. Pidge is swimming in hers. Allura has her hair pulled back in a severe bun that she’s got tucked under a peaked hat, and has layered thick concealer onto her facial tattoos. Shiro’s got a hat as well and is wearing aviators to cover his scar. He thinks dryly for the tenth time about how they’ve picked the two most conspicuous people to carry out this leg.

Allura approaches the truck first with Pidge on one side, while Shiro rounds the corner to the other side. Pidge approaches the driver’s side first.

“License and registration,” she says cheerfully, just as Shiro throws open the door to the passenger side.

He doesn’t know if it was locked or not, but the metal wrenches open like butter under his prosthetic arm. He grabs the driver’s companion by the arm and yanks them out as they yelp; before they have a chance to act in self defence, he manages to twist both their arms behind them and kick out their ankles. He winces a little as they hit the ground hard on their knees, half at the sound that they make and half at how easy the motions had come to him. In the distance, he can hear a squabble as the driver puts up more of a fight. They’re quickly silenced by the loud _crack_ of what is undoubtedly the butt of a pistol against the driver’s face.

“So Lotor was telling the truth,” Lance calls out as he approaches the group.

He’s got his rifle slung over his shoulder, and he shoots them a quick wink and salute as he comes up. And he’s not wrong—  the transport truck passed by exactly when Lotor had said it would. No one exactly trusts Lotor, and Shiro doesn’t think they have any reason to fully do so. All of this could be an extreme act of self preservation, but it seems to also be their only way into the Galra.

They strip the driver and companion out of their clothes and shove them into the police uniforms Shiro and Allura had been wearing before tying them up and taping their mouths shut.  Lance and Allura have appropriated their clothes, while Shiro and Pidge quickly change into dark scrubs and black baseball caps. When they open up the canvas cab it’s filled with barrels, as Lotor had said it would have been. Everything has been as he said it would be.

Shiro is still guarded as they load the driver and his companion into the cage at the back of the truck. Shiro and Pidge climb into the back to join them, and Allura zips the canvas tent back up.

“Nervous?” Shiro asks Pidge over the muffled sounds their captives are making. She grins, illuminated by the dim camping light they’ve set up in the cab, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Shiro knows she’s undergoing  something manic and frantic as well; Keith found him, but this is going to be the first time in over a year that Pidge has a chance to find her family

“Do I look like I’m nervous?” she raises an eyebrow, stealing a glance towards the driver as they try to launch themselves against the cage. The bars rattle, but Pidge barely flinches. They retch and swallow, and Shiro sees a little bit of black trickle down from underneath where the tape’s not fully pressed down.

* * *

 

It goes like clockwork.

Which makes Shiro nervous.

Allura pulls the truck up near a garage at the side of the facility. They drive in through the north gate again, and get ushered in at the second gate when Allura flashes the security key they lifted off the driver. Shiro and Pidge remain in the back, tense and prepared. The driver and their companion have long passed out, and Shiro wonders faintly what Allura and Lance are planning to do with them. They’re going to provide support on the outside for the team, meaning that if they see them running out, Lance will train a rifle on whatever’s chasing them and Allura and a few other Blades will provide ground support.

Pidge gets a ping on her phone, letting them know that Keith and Hunk have reached with Kolivan and Lotor. Security is already low at this hour, and Lotor assures them that everyone’s going to be _much_ more interested in who’s coming to the front steps of the headquarters than who’s pulling in a shipment of a non-volatile materials. Shiro sends a quick prayer out for the safety of the rest of their group before the soft _shwick_ -ing of the canvas unzipping starts.

Their dark scrubs are the closest approximation to what the custodial staff wears, Lotor has informed them. No one’s going to pay attention to the two of them if they’re hauling in barrels, as long as they keep their head down. He’s confirmed with Pidge the easiest path to the lab they need to go, as well as the location of the good doctor Samuel Holt. Lance helps them dismount the barrels before he zips up the canvas top of the truck, their captives still inside.

“Good luck,” he whispers and grasps Shiro’s hand in a handshake, looking around as he passes off the security key. Shiro nods discreetly while Allura keeps a wary eye over her shoulder. Before they can exchange proper goodbyes, her and Lance are hopping back into the truck. Shiro and Pidge immediately start wheeling the barrels towards the loading dock. There’s a freight elevator there that will lead them to the first sub-floor level of the headquarters and will connect them to the rest of the facility.

Shiro pointedly does _not_ trust how forthcoming Lotor is being with the information. During their morning interrogation, Lotor constantly flitted between being helpful, spewing vile obscenities, and telling them that their deaths were inevitable. He had been pumped again with quintessence, seemingly into a lucid state where he told them that they would have to either bring the fight to the Galra or have the Galra bring destruction to them. Blowing up the farmhouse is nothing for them, Lotor had warned, and had left it at that before unloading an impressive amount of information onto them.

They’re not exactly bringing a fight to the Galra. Their unified goal is to preserve and expose, not to destroy, so they’re sending five people into the building and hoping that whatever Lotor’s told them holds true. They’re not stupid either. No one on the team is not expecting carnage of any sort.

They have the Blades, Allura, Lance and Coran on standby for extraction that Shiro is extremely sure that they’ll need. The plan is for them to converge on the outside; Shiro and Pidge have a higher chance of coming out first, making everyone acutely aware of the mortal peril Keith, Hunk and Kolivan have taken on.

Shiro and Pidge have eight barrels to load into the freight elevator. By the time they’ve put in the first three, Allura and Lance have already driven away. By the time they put in the remaining barrel, grab a dolly from the garage, close the cage for the freight and hit the button for the basement level, Allura and Lance have already approached their positions.

The elevator creaks and grinds and clangs as it lowers itself down to the first subfloor. Shiro uses the security key to unlock the gate, and hoists it up. There’s a guard standing watch across the hall, but they barely notice him and Pidge as they roll out the barrels. The dolly is heavy as Shiro pushes it, and his arm gives a warning click. Shiro frowns. The sound is foreign, but he pushes the thought aside to focus on their objective.

They’ve got the beats of the location down pat in their brains. The first floor is the most open, used for storing supplies. They keep their heads down and deposit the barrels in the storage vault Lotor had directed them to, using the code they had been given. The door opens with no qualms and Shiro wheels in the barrels while Pidge falls behind him, keeping an eye out.

They deposit the barrels, and Pidge looks down the hallway before she closes the door of the storage room. She drops a tracker down onto the floor, and pulls out the phone she has tucked in her scrubs. The tracker sends out a pulse of light, and Pidge squints at her screen while Shiro watches the door impatiently.

“Over here,” she says, gesturing towards a large metal cabinet.

Moving the heavy cabinet is an exercise in patience. They have to do it at small increments; Pidge is strong, but there’s a height difference between her and Shiro that they have to account for, as well as the groaning sound the cabinet makes as they move it. They stop every time they hear footsteps pass by, and by the time the cabinet has been moved enough to reveal a door, Shiro’s palms are sweating.

This door has a more archaic method of access compared to the rest of the building. Shiro punches the metal keypads, listening to the clicks of the locks as he carries out the six digit number. The door opens and leads into a dimly lit staircase. There’s a fine layer of dust over the rails, and the staircase smells damp but Pidge says it checks out.

They have to retrieve Samuel Holt first. There’s one of two locations he can be; his prisoner’s quarters on the second sub-floor, or the labs on the last floor of the basement. They’re headed to the quarters first, and Shiro’s hoping Holt’s in his quarters. Shiro’s hoping Holt’s there at all; Lotor had shrugged and said there was no guarantee where Holt would be.

The stairwell drops down a considerable amount before they reach what Pidge reads on her map as the second sub-floor. Shiro pushes open the door, and hears the scrape of a metal bucket against the floor. If they’re reading right, they’re entering into a supply closet on the second floor. Shiro reaches through the crack of the door and picks up the bucket before swinging open the door the rest of the way. He looks over his shoulder at Pidge, who nods. She grabs a mop hanging off a hook and takes the bucket from Shiro, while he grabs an industrial broom.

They stick their head out into an empty hall, and Pidge reads her map again. They stick together, moving down the hall, making sure to not look up at any ceiling or nook or cranny. The hallway is long, lit in a dim blue light, and their footsteps echo even as they try to be as light-footed as possible. They take every corner with caution and keep their ears and eyes peeled, and find the row of rooms they’re looking for after a few minutes of treading.

There’s a number flashing over the steel door of the cell.  Pidge plugs in the security key into the screen beside the door and it flashes, asking for an authority access code. Pidge holds up her phone to the screen and Shiro keeps an eye on the hallway as she unscrambles the code. The door hisses as it unlocks and slides open, and they step into the room. Before anyone can catch them, Pidge closes the door.

The room is small and spartan in nature, save for a desk with a slew of papers strewn across it. It smells damp and mouldy, and faintly of rotting fruit. Holt is clearly not in here, but Pidge has already started to poke around. They are trying to collect as much evidence as they can from the Galra, both incriminating and otherwise. He makes his way towards the desk as Pidge takes in the sight of her father's room.

They can only spend a short amount of time here before they hustle out and try to reach the floor below. That one is significantly trickier with a significantly heavier patrol and a significantly higher amount of danger attached. In a way, it might be good that they didn’t find Holt in there; more attention would be drawn to him, and Shiro would have to work harder to make sure he wasn’t spotted.

The papers on the desk are covered in numbers and scribbles, many of which don't make sense to Shiro. Some of the writing in the paper tapers off into an unintelligible scroll, and there are sentences comprised completely out of oblique symbols.

“Hey,” Shiro calls Pidge as she's observing a chart pinned above the bed. “Come over here.”

Pidge joins him at the desk, and he holds a sheet of paper up. He turns on the desk light so that she can read it better.

“Would you know what this says?” Shiro asks, and Pidge leans in. “Looks like a code.”

Pidge’s eyes widen and she grabs the paper, pulling it close to her face. She swears under her breath as her eyes scan the page.

“I know this,” she says quietly, and pulls out her phone. She takes a picture of the sheet, before setting it down and rising up onto her tiptoes to take a picture of the desk at large. “My dad used to use it with me and—”

There is a loud whirring sound behind them, and they freeze. Slowly, Pidge tucks the phone away into her shirt, looking up wide-eyed at Shiro. He nods at her, and she closes her eyes as the door slides open behind them.

“Hands up!” a man behind them barks, and they both comply. Two sets of heavy footsteps enter the room, and the door slides shut again. “Turn around.”

They obey, and Shiro starts to think quick as they come face to face with two guards in dark uniforms. They both have guns trained on Pidge and Shiro, and Shiro wonders if his bulletproof arm will be good enough to shield both him and Pidge.

“You’re Zarkon’s prisoner,” the taller guard says once they get a proper look at Shiro. The shadow of his baseball hat is not enough to cover the fact that his right hand is robotic and not flesh. The shorter guard goes still, but Shiro sees them click off the safety on their gun and  pop open their visor, revealing familiar sandy brown hair and a scar.

“Matt!” Pidge cries out, leaps forward but his companion turns their gun towards her. Shiro immediately steps in front of her, blocking her from view, and sticks a hand back to prevent her from moving any further. “Shiro, that’s my brother-”

“Pidge, stop,” Shiro says, keeping his eyes on Matt. Matt looks at him, steady. “You don’t have to do this. Don’t hurt your sister.”

“I don’t have a sister,” Matt says coolly. “But I know you, Shiro.”

Matt’s got a steely glint to his eyes as he looks at Shiro down the muzzle of his gun. Shiro doesn’t have to look back to know the look of hurt that’s probably making it’s home on Pidge’s face right now. He doesn’t doubt her ability to control her emotions, but he knows the more she stays in the presence of her brother, the more impulsive she might grow.

“Matt, I-” Pidge starts, but Matt’s companion steps forward. Shiro squares his shoulders, ready to be whatever type of human shield Pidge will need.

“Enough,” they say loudly, voice rough. “I’ll take the girl, you take the prisoner.”

“Yeah,” Matt says. Shiro looks him in the eye, and it must be a trick of the light because Matt’s expression wavers. “You take the girl.”

There’s a gun tucked into the waistband of his scrubs, and Shiro starts to calculate how fast he’ll have to be to draw it before they know what’s happening. They grin, but just before Shiro can act, there’s a loud _BANG_ and the companion crumples to the floor. They don’t let out a sound of anguish; they fall to the ground, landing sideways. The blood that starts to pool underneath their head is pure black.

Behind them, Matt stands. His gun’s lowered by his side, and he looks at Shiro in a completely different manner. Pidge pushes past Shiro and launches herself forward.

“Matt!” She near-sobs as her brother catches her in his arms in a bear hug, lifting her off the ground and spinning her. “God, I’m so glad you’re alive.”

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Matt says, squeezing his arms around her. “It’s been so long, squirt.”

“I thought they had gotten you,” Pidge tells Matt, and even with her back to Shiro, he can tell she’s grinning. “I thought they had brainwashed you.”

“Really?” Matt says, beaming from ear to ear. His eyes glint under the light of the room, damp. “Why? You keep saying I have no brain to begin with.”

“I’ll kill you,” Pidge says, thumping a close fist against her brother’s chest before burying her face into it. “Jesus Christ, I can’t believe you’re alive.”

There’s a loud thud in the distance that makes them all jump. Matt finally drops Pidge fully on her feet, and looks at Shiro over her shoulder.

“There’s someone you should meet,” he says to the both of them. “But we need to move fast.”

 

* * *

 

 

Shiro can’t remember seeing Samuel Holt anywhere other than the photographs Pidge has showed him. Yet, when the heavy metal door to a small lab slides open and the man inside turns around from where he’s perched over notes, Shiro gets a strong sense of recognition. He’s never seen the lines in the man face, has never seen the skewed glasses and overgrown grey hair before but it all looks familiar to him.

Holt opens his mouth, stunned when he sees who it is, but Matt immediately darts forward and clamps a hand over his father’s mouth. He presses a finger to his own, and Shiro has to plant a hand on Pidge’s shoulder to prevent her from launching forward and tackling her family. Sneaking down to the lab had been a little easier with Matt, but had been no less nerve-wracking.

Holt nods, and Matt drops his hand as soon as the door to the lab slides shut again. Shiro lets go of Pidge, and she does a running leap into her father’s arms. Matt keeps a wary eye on the door as Pidge whispers something to her father, and he buries his face in her hair.

Shiro doesn’t want to break up the happy picture, but they’re running short on time.

“We came with others,” Shiro says, and Holt looks up. “We’re going to get you out.”

“Shiro,” Holt steps forward, squinting at Shiro under the light of the lab. “You made it.”

Holt then opens up his arms and takes Shiro into an embrace. Shiro pauses for a moment, before returning it, feeling the foreign familiarity all over again. Holt feels all skin and bones and Shiro thinks for the hundredth time that he had been the lucky one, able to escape the Galra when he did.

“I need my memories back first,” Shiro replies as they draw apart, and Holt frowns. He opens his mouth, but their timeline is tight so Shiro cuts him off. Everyone’s given Shiro enough warnings for him to be able to counter them without rehearsing.  “I’ve already been told what’s happened to me here. I want my actual memories back.”

“It might break you,” Holt says, and Shiro shakes his head. “I’m not calling you weak, Shiro. It’s a lot that you repressed, and opening that box again might have an extremely adverse reaction.”

“It’s a chance I have to take,” Shiro says firmly. He’s been over this a thousand times in his head, and they’re in too deep to turn around. “We have to bring the Galra down and-”

“Which we can do if I escape-” Holt starts to cut in  and Shiro shakes his head.

“I need them back,” Shiro says. “And I need your help for it. Or I can help you escape, and then figure it out for myself.”

Holt doesn’t reply, but Matt has already started rummaging in the far corner of the lab. He’s popped open a metal cabinet, and pulls out a garbage bag from inside. He throws it onto the ground, and a dark helmet spills out onto the ground. He tosses his own to Pidge.

“Change into this,” he gestures towards the bag. “Make sure you keep your visors down, no matter what.”

“What about your helmet?” Pidge asks, picking up a dark uniform shirt from the bag. “Aren’t people going to be suspicious that you’re escorting Dad around?”

“They think I’ve been reformatted too,” Matt replies, tapping his temple. “Thace used to be in charge of my brain, but he’s on our side so he never did anything to me. I wasn’t as important as Shiro, so they didn’t keep track.” His face falls, and then, “But I’ve been running out of time since they used him to deliver a message.”

The dead Blade in front of the old location. Shiro remembers the grim photograph he had seen one of the Blades show on their phone to another member. He had gotten a passing glimpse of it, and had to look away.

“Are you using quintessence too?” Pidge asks, and Matt shakes his head.

“I’ve just been a lowly guard,” he says, and looks at Shiro as he changes into the thick scratchy uniform. “I made myself seem just useful enough to be not used as lab chowder, but I haven’t done anything to make myself stand out. They wanted to throw me in their ring, but this one saved me.”

Shiro belatedly realizes that Matt’s referring to him. He pauses in the middle of buttoning up the uniform’s shirt, before continuing on. He saves himself the trouble of having to respond by putting on the helmet. He wants to ask but if everything goes according to plan, it won’t be long till Shiro knows.

Matt makes Shiro and Pidge pin Holt’s hands behind his back and follow him out of the lab. The hall is empty for now, but Shiro can feel the nervous sweat trickle down the nape of his neck. Holt leans in and whispers to Shiro, “I’m glad you made it out alive,” and Shiro squeezes his wrist in a thanks. He wishes he could recollect enough to have a reunion with Holt, but the further they tread into the bowels of the building, the sharper his focus becomes.

They run into a few guards, but no one asks them any questions. Holt keeps his head hung down low, and one or two guards stop Matt to question him. He tells them that Holt’s been summoned and that’s the end of any questions they have. Shiro wonders how many of them are in full control of their faculties, but decides not to dwell on it.

They use Sam’s hand as an access for a large vault-like door. It triggers a small alarm, but Matt quickly punches in a code to kill it before it draws any attention. They step in, the vault door closes behind them, and the lights flicker on.

It’s a small lab with four large steel tables, each with a large circular platform hovering above it. Wires dangle over it, and there’s tubing underneath the table circulating dark gold liquid. A large series of computers line the far wall of the lab, separated from the tables by a glass wall. Everything in the room is bathed in a sinister purple hue, and Shiro gets a shiver of familiarity as he looks around. Matt punches in a code beside the door, and waits for the whirr of a few more locks before he joins the rest of them.

“How long do we have?” Holt asks, and Pidge shrugs.

“How long do we need?” She says, and Holt presses his lips together in a thin line before he replies.

“Forty minutes  to do this safely,” he replies, and Shiro can feel the bottom of his stomach fall out. “Thirty if we want to be cutting it really, really close.”

“Twenty is what we-” Shiro starts, and this time it’s Sam that cuts him off with a raised hand.

“This is your brain,” Sam says grimly. “Getting your memories back is going to be dangerous enough. I’m not putting you at further risk.”

“We’ll have the time,” Matt says, but his expression matches his father’s. “Did you say something earlier about having friends here with you?”

“They took an audience with Honerva,” Pidge says, and Holt’s eyes widen. “They’re using returning Lotor as a distraction, and to mine information from them.”

“Lotor?” Matt asks almost incredulously, and Pidge nods.

“Lotor told us where the lab is too,” Pidge replies but Matt raises his eyebrows. “We have the full floor plans. They’re going to meet us on the outside.”

“I wouldn’t trust him fully,” Matt says, watching as his father pushes open the glass door to the computer room. “Especially if they’ve been led into an audience with Honerva.”

“We don’t,” Shiro cuts in. “But there weren’t many other options.”

Matt whistles, looks at Shiro.”Lot of faith in your friends, huh?”

“Keith won’t let anything happen to anyone,” Shiro replies with enough conviction, and Matt pauses at where he was fiddling on the table. “We need to have faith.” It’ll be the only thing that’ll drown out the loud fear within all of them.

“Keith?” Matt asks quietly, and Shiro shakes his head.

“I need my memories back,” he says instead, pulling off his helmet and setting it on a surgical cart before he pushes his sweat-slicked hair off of his face.

Holt sets Pidge up at one of the computers to monitor their vitals. The process is fairly simple in theory, he says. To manipulate memories, the Galra had set their victims up as recipients. Holt would be a provider, walking into Shiro’s mind like a dream. The recipients were always sedated to a higher level than the providers so that they would be helpless as their memories were manipulated and engineered to the interests of the Galra.

This time, Shiro will not be as sedated as a recipient normally is. He needs to be lucid too, Holt explains. It’ll be confusing at first, but Shiro needs to be the one to seek out his old memories. If Holt unleashes it all on him at one go, it’s factual that it’ll completely destroy Shiro. Holt knows, because the Galra have used it to break other prisoners when they have no more use for them. There are a few failsafes the Galra have instilled, but Sam will be able to bypass a lot of them. It’ll be weird to get adjusted at first but the quicker Shiro adjusts to being in a dreamlike state, the faster they can move. He might catch some memories here and there, but he needs to have a definitive experience in order for them to stick, in order for him to find who he once was.

Shiro keeps a brave face on as he lays down on the cold surgical steel of the table. There’s a bright ring of white lights above him, and though it’s evoking no memory, there’s suddenly a sharp burst of primal fear that blooms within him. He think it starts to seep out of him and onto the table as Matt clamps shut metal cuffs over Shiro’s hands but Shiro doesn’t have time for fear. There’s a large headset that buckles down over Shiro’s head, and a large needle that hangs loose from the side. Matt catches Shiro eyeing it, and grimaces.

“You’ll be sedated before anything hurts,” he says in what Shiro thinks is an approximate of a reassuring voice. Matt places an oxygen mask over his face, and taps it to check it. “There’s not much I can do. Pidge knows how to monitor you guys, but it’s all up to my dad now, okay?”

Shiro nods, and Matt reaches under the table to turn a knob. A faint scent of cherries curls up Shiro’s nose, and he tries not to inhale too deeply.

Shiro’s extremely terrified of what’s to come, of finding out who he is. He’s put up a strong facade, but he doesn’t know if it’ll break him to find out what’s happened to him over the past year. Ulaz had been helpful in easing some of the fears that way, telling Shiro that he had an inhuman constitution when the Galra had started to mould his memories, and he’ll continue to have one after too.The shaping did come, after all, near the end of his imprisonment, where he had learned to live with the horrors he had faced on a daily basis.

He had been strong then, Ulaz had said. He will be strong now too.

“I’m going to do intermittent patrols of the outside,” Matt says. “Pidge knows where the killswitch is too, in the worst case scenario.”

Shiro inhales deeply, and the sweet smell grows stronger. Matt gives Shiro one last look, and he’s too strongly backlit by the white halo of light for Shiro to discern what it is.

“I know you’ll do well,” Matt says, as the corners of Shiro’s vision start to fuzz out. “But good luck out there, okay?”

Shiro lolls his head to respond, but he blinks once and his vision blacks out completely.

 

* * *

 

 

Shiro wakes up at a desk in an empty classroom. Sunlight pours in, illuminating specks of dust, and he feels warm like he’s just woken up from a nap. He looks down at himself, and sees that he’s in an orange uniform. His right hand is still prosthetic, and suddenly Shiro is hit with a wave of familiarity that he can’t quite place.

He knows where he is, but he can’t name it. He catches his distorted reflection in the metal of the desk and for the first time in a while, realizes he’s changed when he sees the scar and his white tuft of hair. It’s not part of who he was before. Who that was, he can’t place, not yet.

Someone clears their throat.

Sam Holt stands in front of him, also in the Garrison uniform. Right. They're in a classroom. The Garrison.

He looks younger, looks like he did the first time Shiro had met him. A memory of trying hard to stay awake during his first lecture floats in front of Shiro, a wisp of what used to be. But Shiro knows him. This he knows as a fact.

“Is this okay?” Holt - _call me Sam_ between a handshake, years ago -  asks, gesturing to the classroom. “Thought I’d start with an early shared memory. It’ll make things easier.”

“Easier?” Shiro blinks, squinting and pulling his hands closer to his face. He can’t see his fingerprints, and realizes belatedly that this is a dream. “Oh.”

“We don’t have a lot of time,” Sam says. “Not on the outside, anyways.”

The outside. They’re in a lab, Shiro remembers that. Keith’s got Lotor, is staving off Honerva and— Shiro stares at his hands again as there’s a distant rumble. He feels soupy right now, but he guesses that it’s a given that his mind is a liminal space.

“Let’s go,” Sam says. “I don’t think it’ll be long before chaos descends upon us.”

Shiro gets up obediently, looking around the room as he moves. The edges of it are fuzzy, and start to melt away as they shift. Shiro doesn’t remember what their objective was, but Sam seems to remember so he follows him out of the room and into a dimly lit hall. There are no windows

“We packed your memory into a vault,” Sam says, and frowns. “It’s here somewhere.”

“I feel like I can remember some stuff,” Shiro says, his own voice sounding distant to him. “I remember that I know you.”

Shiro stares at the walls, stark and tinted green under the lights of the hall. He sees familiar nicks and scratches across it as they walk. He runs his fingers over them and feels nothing. Sam looks back at him over his shoulder, and in the distance, Shiro sees the hallway start to stretch further down.

“Do you? Have you started to remember other things?” Sam asks, and Shiro looks around again. Something picks at the lower reaches of his brain, and Shiro reaches in to grab it and haul it upwards. Black smoke starts to surround him, starts to wrap around him as the scene comes back to them.

Sam looks around them as the hall starts to melt, starts to glimmer and morph from drywall to dark wooden arches and a deep red carpeted floor. The room expands outwards, grows windows to let the grey light of an overcast day spill in.

Shiro looks at Sam again and this time, the older man is wearing a decorative uniform. He smiles at Shiro, soft and sad.

“This is better for you, huh?” he says, and Shiro looks around. He recognizes this place too, and this memory comes to him a lot easier than the last one. Shiro’s in a dark uniform as well, his medals neatly lined up, his hands covered in white gloves. He curls his right hand. It’s still mechanical.

Shiro recognizes this as the courthouse where he had gotten married to Keith, where Iverson had officiated and Holt had stood as one of three witnesses to the wedding. He remembers the nervousness he felt as he had delivered his vows, remembers the succinct and shaking manner in which Keith told him his. He remembers holding onto Keith’s hand as Iverson spoke, remembers how sweaty Keith’s hands were as he slid the engraved wedding band onto Shiro’s hand.

A more distant, faded memory; he remembers pressing the ring into Keith’s open palm and telling him to hold onto it while Shiro was gone, that Shiro didn’t want anything happening to it. Shiro stares wide-eyed around the room as he remembers his own wedding day, seemingly from lifetimes ago.

“God,” he breathes out, pinpricks shooting down his spine. The memory makes him shiver, and he stares around the room.

And suddenly the scene snaps, glitches out into a thousand colours at once before Shiro finds himself back in the dimly lit hall. He’s in the clothes he was wearing when they broke into the facility, and Sam’s in his dirty lab coat. Shiro looks around, looks at Sam.

“What happened?” he asks, and Sam raises an eyebrow.

“Probably some sort of implement to prevent you from fully remembering,” he says, and pulls Shiro by the elbow. “Let’s move.”

Shiro blinks and follows and doesn’t tell Sam that he can’t remember what memory they just re-lived. Vaguely, he remembers the weight of a uniform and nothing else. They walk down the hall, and Shiro wonders if he’ll ever remember. He does know now why he was here to begin with.

“Have more faith,” Sam huffs in front of him, walking faster. “Otherwise this hallway’s going to stretch on further.”

Shiro’s eyes snap ahead and reminds himself of his objective. He’s here to get his memory back fully, not to mull over small incidents. The hallway in front of them stops stretching. More dark smoke hovers along the side of the walls, and Shiro passes his hand through them as he walks.

A memory. Breaking apart a fight, commanding the cadets to step down. Arguing long and hard with a stern looking woman as to why his friend deserves a third chance, a fourth chance, all the chances till he’s shaped into what Shiro knows he can be. Holding back on telling her that his friend has little else to go back to.

Another memory. Sitting on the back of a red motorcycle as Keith tears down a dirt road. They’ve been close for a long while but Shiro fell in love with him here, as the wind whipped past them and he told Keith to go faster, push harder, be greater. He remembers this.

Another. His grandfather beaming, taking a picture of him and Keith on the steps of the courthouse. It took two years for Shiro to confess. It took a year after that for him to propose. They had gotten married the next week.

Another. A sneering, familiar face throwing a burlap sack over his face. Everything goes dark as Sendak shoves him into the back of a Garrison-sanctioned military transport. Off to the future, someone had laughed while Shiro tried to blindly position his body in front of the Holts, hide them somehow from a danger they did not know.

Each one stabs him sharp as he touches the black smoke. Each one he forgets as quickly as he remembers as the smoke dissipates. He wants to hold onto them like precious gold, but in a fraction of a second, he can’t remember what is it that he had wanted to hold onto.

“Be careful,” Sam calls out. “Try not to touch those. If you get too lost in one, the Galra’s failsafe might kick you out completely.”

“What happens then?” Shiro asks, but Sam suddenly turns a corner that wasn’t there before. Shiro tries to follow, but is faced with a wall.

“Down here!” A voice calls from behind him. Shiro turns on his heel and sees Sam sticking his head out of a door that had previously not been there. “I think it’s-”

The door slams shut on Sam, cutting him off abruptly. The lights start to flicker off, the darkness of the hall encroaching closer and closer to Shiro. He steps backwards, and the bulb above him weakly sputters to life as the lights ahead of him fuse out at a rapid pace.

“Where are you going?” a voice rasps from behind him, familiar. Shiro turns to come face to face with a figure drenched in the shadows.

Shiro wills another light to flicker on above the figure, and sucks in his breath as he comes face to face with a brutalized version of himself. The gash across the bridge of his nose is dripping, and his eye’s puffed up in a violent bloodshot bruise. The side of his face is swollen and his split lip is curled into a half-smile. This Shiro still has black hair, but the right sleeve of his shirt is tied into a neat knot.

This Shiro steps forwards and coughs, pale like a ghoul. Shiro feels some modicum of relief when he sees that the blood he coughs up is a bright red.

“You found me,” This version of Shiro says, and reaches a hand out. It finds a place on Shiro’s shoulder, and suddenly Shiro’s flooded with memories of screaming till his throat cracked, of sobbing into fractured knuckles after a fight, of _fighting_ and tearing apart and clawing and—

A solid hand grabs him by the shoulder and pulls and Shiro finds himself falling backwards, towards the ground, _through_ the ground—

And he’s on his two feet again, standing in the same hallway. This time, Sam’s in front of him with a look of deep concern.

“This is going to be harder than I thought,” Sam says, casting a worried look at Shiro. “Don’t let go of me, okay?”

Shiro nods, his head spinning. The memories lasted a little longer this time; he still feels the ghost of the pain that had wracked his heart, even though the memory of what it was fades.

“Will I get everything back?” Shiro asks as Sam guides him with a hand on his shoulder. They walk down the hall, towards a large black door that sits at the end. “Will it stick?”

“Hopefully,” Sam says, though he sounds a lot more unsure than he had before they had gone under. Their boots are heavy against the floor as they approach the door, and Sam reaches forward. He opens it, and the lights start to flicker again. Shiro follows him in.

They step out onto an open field. Shrubs scatter extensively across the ground, and the sky’s bright blue, crisp and cheery in contrast to the grim hallway they had just been in.  Mountains expand around them, creating a circle around them that Shiro doesn’t think he’s ever seen in real life. There’s not a single cloud in the sky.

In the dead centre of the field, there’s a small shack. Large tendrils of black smoke surround the smouldering wood of the building, snaking in and out of the window. The smoke rises up thirty feet into the air before it evaporates into the clear summer sky.

“That’s you,” Sam Holt says from beside him. “That’s all your past in there.”

“Why does it look like that?” Shiro asks, watching as the smoke curls through the grass on the ground and disappears as soon as it gets six feet away from the shack. It’s a sinister blotch in the middle of a picturesque backdrop, and when Shiro squints, he sees it pulse.

“That’s how they all look like,” Sam says. “Looked like. Most people’s crumble, and they lose their memories forever. They’re turned into husks, robots that do the Galra’s bidding. Yours has withstood quite a lot.”

“What do we do?” Shiro asks, staring as the smoke pulses outwards again. A red shimmer curls through it, catching the light of a sun Shiro can't see hanging in the sky. It's faint at first, just a stain on the black until the smoke pulses again. It grows more opaque, starts to widen, a deep red streak twined in with black smoke.

“I’ll let us in,” Sam says, and frowns. “You’ll have to do the rest.”

“What’s the rest?” Shiro asks, and but Sam’s already moving forward.

“It’s simple,” he calls over his shoulder to Shiro. “You’ll know when you see it.”

There is no sound of him moving. Shiro realizes there’s barely any sound at all. The space sounds empty, save for a low humming sound that curls around him, that vibrates against his feet. It’s the hum of the machine on the outside, he realizes, and as he starts to walk, he notices the lack of a crunch below his feet. The way the ground feels like shock-absorbent rubber betrays the artifice of dirt and dried out grass.

The smoke parts way to reveal a door as they approach. It’s as delirict as the rest of the building, and the humming has grown louder. A red spark shoots through the black smoke in tandem with the small amount of fear that blooms within Shiro, and the air around him grows uncomfortably warm. Sam reaches for the door, and blinks out of existence.

“Sam?” More red sparks through the black smoke as Shiro looks around. “Sam?”

The humming increases, and there’s a sharp _CRACK_ behind him. Shiro looks over his shoulder, and sees the mountains start to to deteriorate in quality, start to look like a bad scan of a faded photograph. In the distance, the ground starts to fall away into darkness. There’s no hall, no rooms, no Sam Holt to guide him. The world around him is falling apart.

Shiro clenches his fists, squares his shoulders, and faces the door. Black smoke twists around the frame, and the crisp blue sky steadily grows dark. He reaches for the door knob, and opens the door, stepping into the shack.

It’s not his own home. That much he knows as soon as he enters.

The shack is small, cluttered and dusty. A futon sits underneath the window, and a translucent sheet hangs above it, acting as a window. The light outside grows darker, and there’s a giant corkboard hanging up on one of the walls. It’s covered in newspaper clippings, drawings, and sticky notes. The most prominent image is Shiro’s memorial photograph, pinned neatly in the centre surrounded by a wreath of ripped papers, each containing a half-written love letter.

Wishful thinking, perhaps.

Shiro notices none of this.

In the centre of the shack, there’s a figure comprised of dark smoke, twisting and shaping itself into a more tangible form. He watches as it starts to solidify, wisps of smoke floating around it as it moulds itself into something familiar. The hum grows louder, reverberating through Shiro’s eardrums, through his bones, through his core, but it’s not unpleasant. This figure too has red light emitting through it in spider-like pattern as it forms.

It’s an eternity and a moment all in one, and Shiro comes face to face with a shadowed version of himself. It stands as tall as he does, as rigid as he does, hands clenched by its sides. It turns his head towards the window, where the light is evaporating quick, tendrils of smoke rising from it.

“You found me,” it turns his head back to Shiro, and his own hoarse voice echoes throughout the shack. “You found us.”

“Us?” Shiro manages to ask, but he already knows. Red pulses in the chest of the figure, glowing like a small sun. The heart of the creature. Shiro’s heart. Shiro’s memories.

The room around them starts to rattle, and the light is getting dimmer faster than Shiro’s eyes can adjust to it. The hum has grown so loud that it beats against his skull, steady and encroaching in its pattern. The figure starts to move towards Shiro, leaving trails of black smoke in its wake. The strong scent of cherries floods Shiro’s senses.

And it becomes clear to Shiro what he must do. It becomes clear that he must raise his arms, becomes clear that this is him and this is who he is and this dark mirror image of him drifting towards him in halting movements is what he needs to become complete.

It steps closer, and the shack’s almost completely dark now. Shiro tracks it through the red sparks shooting in it, and as it draws closer, his brain starts to pulse. He starts to see memories whirl around him, just out of grasp but growing nearer as the figure stalks towards him.

It reaches out a hand, brushing its fingertips against Shiro’s and Shiro is suddenly hit with the memories of a cold night when the heating broke, of the first time he stepped in a cockpit, of his grandfather scolding him for trying to look at the sun. The memories grow more intense as the figure draws nearer, stepping into Shiro’s arms, and Shiro feels like he’s trying to watch hundreds, thousands, millions of pictures at once as it wraps its arms around him in an embrace.

And Shiro feels it all. All the hurt he’s ever had, all the pain, all the times he’s laughed and cried and stared at a dark cell ceiling, holding onto the last dredges of hope with the strength of a lion. All the love he’s felt for friends, for his family, for Keith who’s both and more and is Keith, Keith, _Keith_ , beginning and end, an infinite amount he’s never fully quantified till now and even then just barely—

The room around them has gone completely dark and all Shiro feels is the solid presence of himself, of his memories, of his past, and—

There’s a loud _CLANG CLANG CLANG_ in the distance, and suddenly everything comes to an abrupt halt as Shiro gets swallowed whole by the darkness.

 

* * *

 

 

There are red lights flashing in the room when Shiro comes to, gasping loudly as air rushes into his lungs. His entire body feels heavy like lead, and he stares up into the white halo of lights hovering above him. His head feels like it’s pressurized, and he tries to move it but it’s restricted.

Someone yells in the distance, and a door bangs. Shiro’s still immobile, but can feel a prickle of sweat crawl down his neck. Suddenly, the halo of light above him is blacked out by a figure. The figure fiddles around Shiro’s head, and the pressure around his skull quickly disappears. There’s a brief pinprick in his ear, but it’s gone as soon as it comes. Shiro inhales sharply, and feels a hand slide under his back to help him up. He still feels like he’s got a ball and chain around his entire body, but his rescuer lends him support as he sits up.

Fingers run through his hair, and the man beside him asks if he’s okay. Shiro turns to look at him, and in red flashing light of the room, he can make out dark hair, dark eyes, and a fiery untamed energy.

“What-” Shiro starts, and to his surprise, the man places a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“We don’t have much time,” he says hurriedly, and there’s wilderness in his eyes that seems faintly familiar. “Did it work?”

There’s a loud muffled bang on the other side of the room that causes the man to jump; Shiro’s still entranced by the way he looks, feels himself getting drawn in like a magnet without having an inkling why. The man looks back at him, and there must be something he doesn’t like with the way Shiro’s looking at him because his face falls.

“Shiro?”

Somehow, this man knows his name. He thinks. Shiro comes to a dawning realization that it’s quite possible that he doesn’t know his own name. He doesn’t know where he is. He thinks he’s supposed to head east, but he doesn’t know why.

“Keith!” Someone else calls out, voice faraway. “I don’t think he’s—fuck!”

There’s a din in the background, with voices scrambling and yelling but Shiro can’t make any of it out. His head is swimming like he’s underwater and he sways, only to be steadied by the man whose eyes have blown wide and terrified. He cups Shiro’s face with a rough palm, slides down to grasp his chin in what feels like a desperate caress. But—

“Sorry,” Shiro murmurs, and the man’s eyes widens. “I don’t think I know who you are.”

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added a tag for slight gore in this chapter! Just because there's a little more action!! Gosh, this fic has been such a journey. this is officially the longest thing i've written *jonathan van ness voice* can you believe?

There’s no tremor in Keith’s hands as he grips the steering wheel of the firebird. There was before— in the morning, he had run shaking fingers through his hair after he had washed his face. He had tried his best not to look in the mirror; the less Keith knows about his current state, the more confidence he’ll have in himself. He knows his friends see him as some sort of infallible, determined, gruff archetype and he’s not going to do anything to change that. It motivates them.

But Keith is scared.

“What do we do if things go south?” Hunk asks from where he sits in the back seat. Lotor’s beside him, hands and legs cuffed in front of him. He’s been quiet for most of the morning and that has done nothing to ease Keith’s mood.

“For us or for Shiro and Pidge?” Keith asks, glancing at Hunk from the rearview mirror. Kolivan sits beside him, stoic and large and silent.

“Both,” Hunk shrugs. He too has rid himself of nervousness in his voice. And Hunk tends to have it the worst out of all of them. He’s been a picture of calm for a good majority of the morning, something that’s instilled silent dread inside Keith.

“We fight,” Keith says simply. It _is_ that simple. They’ve got people set up on the outside. No one is leaving here unless they say they can.

“I’d suggest running,” Lotor says, voice taciturn and Hunk snorts from beside him.

“Great idea,” Hunk replies dryly. “But no one asked.”

Lotor doesn’t reply to this, just stares out the window. Keith trusts him as far as he can throw him, but a tentative ally is better than none. Keith’s half-expected the Galra to be there around every corner, and is more surprised when they aren’t. Lotor’s assured them that he truly has nothing to lose, including his own life.

Everyone still has their guard up.

The radio crackles with an old John Denver song and Kolivan reaches to turn it up. The signal warbles but Keith welcomes it; Hunk exchanges a look of amusement with him through the rearview mirror at the action. The Blades want this as much as Keith does. They’re ready to peel back the veil on the Galra and Keith can tell what it meant when Kolivan tucked a photo of the dead Blade into the inside pocket of his jacket. The Galra had sent a clear message to them, and Kolivan was determined to reciprocate.

There’s no time for Keith to deal with fear, no time for him to cope with it. He’s grown to know it intimately anyways and represses it when he can with numbness. He thinks it would have hit him in larger waves if he hadn’t found some sort of peace and resolve the night before.

“We fight as much as we can,” Kolivan says. “But we run when we need to.”

The need won’t come till the very end. Keith’s sure of it. And he doesn’t know if him or anyone else will be able to identify it when it crops up.

It all comes down to this.

His one prayer is that Shiro makes it out alive. Even if he doesn’t get his memories back, Keith needs him to live and needs him to be able to say he survived at the hands at the Galra. Keith’s wish is that he too makes it out, is there to experience Shiro making it out alive. Keith’s not fatalistic or suicidal; he’s pragmatic and will defend till his last breath. There’s just a very vocal part of him on the inside that’s hoping that it won’t come to that.

“They’re in the shipping yard,” Hunk announces, looking at his phone. “I’ve let them know how far we’re out.”

“Good,” Kolivan says, looking at the time on his own watch. “Two minutes till mark.”

This time it’s Keith that turns the music up louder. He knows Lance is going to hate the fact that anyone changed the dials on his shitty car radio, but Keith’s just going to remind him he should be lucky he’s got a surviving vehicle. Keith  has felt a deep sense of loss, knowing his motorcycle has been blown to bits. He had lived so much of his life on it after he had left the Garrison that it has been like losing an old friend.

Pidge feels the same too. They haven’t had a lot of time to catch up and subsequently wallow in their feelings. Last night had been an exception for Keith and Shiro, because Keith thinks that he would feel insurmountable regret if he walked into the fire without finding some sort of resolution and hope in their relationship. Their love has been a shield for both of them Shiro’s came in the form of Keith saving him and Keith’s has come in his will to survive this. He’s hoping that it’s enough.

“Thirty seconds,” Kolivan announces, unbuckling his seatbelt. The road to the facility is winding, and they’re quick approaching a blind spot. Keith slows down just as Kolivan opens the door to the car.

He rolls out of the car silently with ease, just as the car turns. The bright blue body of it covers Kolivan from anyone who might be looking. Keith keeps driving, watching the small cloud of dust where Kolivan had been. For a man of his stature, Kolivan has done a great job of disappearing into the small foothills. Kolivan’s got another method of sneaking into the facility, is going to be collecting intel on his own, and has insisted that he go alone.

They’ve driven through the north gate, and approach the facility in a similar way that he, Shiro, and Lance had done earlier. By the time Keith is pulling the car up to the gate to the facility, there are three armed guards standing in front of the entrance. He slows down to a stop, just as a guard approaches.

Keith’s rolling down his window before the individual has a chance to knock on it. They have a sunken look to their face, and Keith wonders how many of these people are actually alive.

“State your business,” the guard says, and Keith lowers the window behind him. He watches Hunk give the guards a cheery smile and wave.

“A friend invited us,” Hunk says. He leans back so that Lotor can give the guard a short nod, but the people still look incredibly suspicious. They unhook a walkie from their belt, and the signal makes it crackle as they turn it on.

“Bring an escort to the front gate,” they speak into the walkie, and the person on the other end gives a confirmation. The guard turns to Keith.

“Get out of the car,” they tell him, and Keith grimaces.

“No can do,” he says. “Just tell me where to park.”

“Out,” they repeat, but Keith turns his head to look straight ahead. “I said get out of the car.”

“We don’t need the valet service,” Hunk chirps from the background, and the guard looks incensed. They look like they’re about to say something, but Lotor leans forward.

“They’re here at Honerva’s request,” he says, and Keith can see from the rearview mirror that Lotor’s strategically hiding his cuffed hands. “And mine. If you want to keep them here and earn her ire, be my guest. Just know that my own will be mixed in there too.”

There’s enough of a cutting edge in Lotor’s voice to make the guard step back the slightest amount. Keith raises an eyebrow at them, and they mumble something unintelligible into their walkie. They step away completely from the car, and their colleagues part as the gates open.

 

* * *

 

 

The Galra facility is intimidating in its banality.

Two guards walk in front of Keith, Hunk and Lotor while three walk behind them. Hunk had undone the cuffs on Lotor feet before he had gotten out of the car, but had kept his handcuffs on. As soon as the guards saw the silver of the chains they had drawn their guns, but Lotor had told them to stand down.

Hunk walks beside Lotor, a warning hand on the taller man’s back. Keith keeps an observant eye as they walk through the white-walled halls. He’s correlating all the maps Pidge had drawn up with all the rooms he’s seeing, committing to certain memory what room is for what. The fluorescent lighting above makes the place look like a hospital, albeit an unnervingly empty one. Keith remembers the tracker getting crushed in the second floor and wonders briefly what’s up there. Lotor’s said that it stores low-value materials and serves as quarters for the scientists that aren’t also prisoners.

There’s silence save for the hum of the lights and the sound of boots against the vinyl floor. The chain linking Lotor’s cuffs clinks gently, keeping a soft beat to their march. The guards turn a corner and lead them to what Keith recognizes as a fairly sizable room. They unlock the door, revealing what looks like it was once a boardroom. A mahogany conference table is tipped on its side and propped against the wall, while metal filing cabinets sit stacked like tetris. There’s a large whiteboard in the far end of the room with a hole through the center, and dark smears around where the plastic has cracked.

In the center stands Sendak, arms crossed over his chest as he leers at them. The part of his face that had been blown off is wrapped in pristine white bandages, and the room stinks like rotting meat. Being in close quarters with Lotor, Keith’s almost used to the smell.

“So nice to see you, Lotor,” Sendak says as the three of them are ushered in. Three of the guards remain in the room with them, while two step outside. Sendak doesn’t move from where he’s standing; Hunk, Lotor and Keith line up in front of him, side by side.

“You’re doing well,” Lotor notes, and Sendak grunts.

“As good as I can do with my face blown out.”

“Well,” Lotor says dryly. “You don’t look like you were any worse for it.”

Sendak’s gaze drifts down towards where Lotor’s hands are cuffed. He sneers at him, but Lotor stands with his back tall anyways, staring down at the other man.

“Where’s Honerva?” Keith asks, and Sendak directs his greasy smile towards him.

“Who said she’s coming?” his voice is more vicious with Keith, but Keith knows it’s a bluff. Sendak hasn’t made a move. Neither have the guards that sandwich them in the room.

Keith knows Sendak’s trying to make the room tense on purpose, trying to dress and season them for Honerva. It admittedly rankles, admittedly crawls under Keith’s skin and picks away at him in a more than meager way but Keith ignores it in favour of returning Sendak’s words with a blank stare.

The stench is the most unnerving of it all, as is the way the light dances across the sheen of oil across both Sendak and Lotor’s faces. When they had gone to retrieve Lotor in the morning, his pillow had been stained a garish yellow-green, presumably from whatever odd substance they’re sweating out. Lotor says it’s a side effect of the quintessence, said it’s where most of the stench comes from and only happens from people who’ve died before. All three of the guards standing in the room have the strange sheen to them.

“You blew up my house,” Keith says plainly, and Sendak clicks his teeth.

“Almost blew you up too,” Sendak replies, shrugging. “Sadly, I was on strict orders not to.”

“Maybe you’ll still get your chance,” Keith replies, crooking the corner of his mouth. It’s an insolent look that’s the human mirror of Sendak’s leer. It has a visible effect on Sendak, though Keith wonders if one loses the elasticity in their expressions if they’ve continuously died and come back to life. As it is, Sendak talks like his mouth is heavy with a rotting tongue.

Sendak says nothing at it, doesn’t have to because a few seconds later there’s a sharp click and the door opens. Hunk and Keith look over their shoulders, but Lotor stares straight ahead. Keith watches as two guards enter, followed by a tall and lean woman in a white lab coat.

She looks sharp, precise and predatory like her son. Unlike her son, she doesn’t have a sheen, nor does she stink like she’s decaying on the side of the road. Keith catches a faint scent of cherries trail in after her and sees the knitted skin of her facial scars gleam in the dark. They almost remind him of Allura’s tattoos, but more brutal. Even under the ugly white-green light of the room, Honerva projects the power and terrifying beauty of a desert in bloom.

“Thanks for answering my dinner invitation,” she says, voice low and polished as she walks past them. She joins Sendak on the opposite side and crosses her arms over her chest. Honerva looks like she’s part of the perpetually living, but Keith doesn’t miss the way that her eyes glint a liquid gold.

“Anytime,” Hunk replies easily. “Wasn’t too hard to find the place either.”

Honerva ignores him and doesn’t acknowledge Lotor. Lotor stares ahead like it’s nothing new. Honerva instead turns on Keith, giving him an assessing gaze. It’s not meant to posture or intimidate; it’s simple and incredibly cold.

“You’ve been a thorn in my side,” Honerva says briskly towards Keith. “Where’s your husband?”

“Where’s yours?” Keith asks back in as even a tone as he can. Over Honerva’s shoulder, Sendak’s expression has slipped into something smug and sinister. Keith’s sure they think they’re a pack of wolves that have him and Hunk surrounded.

“Zarkon will not take audience with you,” Honerva says primly, and shoots a quick look over at Hunk. “You’ll have to deal with me.”

She steps forward towards him, and Keith keeps a keen eye on her. She looks up at Hunk, squints her eyes and hums. To his credit, Hunk looks down coolly, and doesn’t let his throat bob in nervousness till after Honerva’s turned away from them. Keith tries to empty his head of whatever she’s doing to psych them up and speaks in as unaffected a tone as he can manage.

“We’re here to return your son,” Keith says, and Honerva raises an eyebrow. “In exchange for you leaving us alone.”

There’s a moment of silence that stretches over them, and then Honerva scoffs. She lets out a short barking laugh that cuts through the air, and fully rounds on Keith.

“So you’re going to leave him here and hope I’ll stay good on my word?” Honerva asks, voice incredulous.

No, Keith does not hope nor think that. No one does, including Lotor. They’re just trying to buy time till they get what they need and cause some hell along the way. Keith’s thought long and hard about creating a proposition for Honerva thats just the right blend of courage and stupidity. If the plan was too idiotic, she’d see right through to it. If it was too smart, they would have better things to do than stand and parlay with her.

“We’re going to leave him here, and we’re going to leave. You leave us alone,” Keith presses his lips together, trying to gauge Honerva. “And we won’t destroy the facility.”

“Destroy the facility?” Both of Honerva’s eyebrows inch towards her hairline, and she smiles. It’s a shade of wicked and impressed, and it tells Keith all that he needs to know. “I see.”

She doesn’t sound like she’s taking the threat very seriously. And she has no reason to; there’s only two of them, and they’ve both walked into her lair. Honerva doesn’t respond any further though. Instead, she walks slowly up to Lotor, scanning his face as she approaches. The scent of cherries gets stronger as she draws closer and Keith doesn’t move to give her space. She reaches up and takes Lotor’s chin in one of her hands, tilting his face down. The tips of her fingers are deathly white and pruned.

“My son,” she says as she tilts his head to one side and then the other. “So good to see you.”

“Mother,” Lotor replies curtly, and a smile uncurls on Honerva’s face.

“You don’t look well,” she says, clicking her tongue as she swipes some of the sheen off with her thumb. She brings her finger to her nose and sniffs, and casts Lotor a theatrically sad look.

“I’ve brought them to you,” Lotor says coolly. They knew Lotor would say this— they have planned for it. After they had left him in his cell alone for a while, they had also planned on what to do if he meant it. And Keith won’t bother figuring out if he actually does or not.

“Did you?” Honerva sounds pleased at this, and slides her hand across her son’s cheek in a caress. Lotor closes his eyes and tilts his head into it and then there’s a sharp sound of a hand smacking across his face. It’s a hard hit that causes Hunk to flinch.

Lotor looks unsurprised at the slap, and stares down at his mother.

“They’re not the ones I want,” her voice has gone back to being cold. It’s devoid of the fractional amount of warmth she had just a moment ago. She wipes her hands on the front of the coat, leaving a small yellow stain on it. “Neither are you.”

She turns on her heel and walks back, shoes clicking as she walks along.

“It’s almost insulting that someone so stupid has evaded me so much,” she says, picking something out of her pocket and  pressing it into Sendak’s hand. She looks over her shoulder at Keith. “Must have been sheer luck.”

“It’s lasted me pretty long,” Keith replies easily, watching the transaction. It’s a small wrapper that Sendak peels back.  “Last time offer. Leave us alone, and you can keep your son.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Honerva hums, turning again. Sendak swallows the large pill in the wrapper, and rotates his neck. She smiles tightly, scanning each one of the three of them. “Someone else is in this building, aren’t they? No one comes in with an offer as weak and stupid as this.”

Keith fights hard not to narrow his eyes at her. He stares at her instead in silence, trying to draw it out as long as possible.

“Someone probably looking to get his memories back,” Honerva says and though Keith’s jaw clenches only the most miniature amount, she catches it immediately. It makes her smile wide in an eerie echo of the way Sendak smiles. It’s got too many teeth, and her eyes don’t crinkle.

The gold of her irises look frightening this way, like her eyes are not quite set right. Keith reminds himself that she hasn’t figured out their other objective, but Honerva is somehow more unsettling than her son and Sendak combined. The thought that she is truly part of the living makes her significantly more frightening than anyone else in this room.

“I’d worry less about that,” Keith says, pitching his voice lower and rougher. “And worry more about what’s going to happen to your son if you don’t comply.”

“What can you do to him that I can’t undo?” Honerva counters with a little hum, and she turns to Sendak. “Take care of them. I’m going to go take a stroll.”

Honerva breezes by them, looking completely unaffected. Most likely on an impulse, Hunk grabs out at her.

The reaction is instant.

The guards standing with them descend on Hunk, while Honerva yanks out her elbow and uses the same momentum to smack him in the face. She steps to the side and Keith’s about to make for her, but he feels hands on his back and sees another guard try to grab at him.

He catches the punch before it reaches him and wrenches their hand back, causing them to let out a yelp of pain. Before he can follow it up, he feels a large hand on his shoulder and sees Sendak leering behind him, good eye bulging as he stares Keith down.

“Let’s dance,” Sendak says, before using the same hand to grab the side of Keith’s face and dig his fingers in. Sendak narrowly misses Keith’s eye, and Keith swings, hitting Sendak dead in the joint of his elbow. Sendak holds onto, digging bruises into the meat of Keith’s face and dragging. Keith juts his hand again, harder this time and Sendak finally gives.

It’s a flurry after that; Sendak swings at Keith with his other hand, but he’s sluggish enough for Keith to dodge it. The guards are a different problem though; everyone in the room descends on Keith and Hunk while Honerva disappears into the mess.

“Let me out!” Lotor calls as Keith wrestles a baton out of a guards hand. Keith ignores it in favour of kicking the guard square in the stomach, hard enough to send them flying back. He whips around just in time to see Sendak launch at him again and he ducks and spins, rounding on the man with the baton.

He whacks the back of Sendak’s head hard enough for the _CRACK_ to echo through the room. Sendak growls but Keith wails on him, keeps battering him with the heavy stick even has he spins around. Keith smacks him on the bandaged side of his head and Sendak makes an anguished sound as black starts to seep through the bandage.

Someone tackles Keith before he can strike again, knocking him over to the side. It’s another guard, one that _reeks_ of death, and they raise a gun in Keith’s face. He doesn’t have a moment to be terrified because Hunk kicks the firearm out of their hand, and then aims his foot straight at their ribs. Keith uses the momentum to flip them off of him and lunge for the gun. He manages to swipe it up off the floor just as Sendak creeps up behind him.

Keith doesn’t pull the trigger. Instead, he pistol whips Sendak across the face, causing him to yell out again. Keith doesn’t wait for him to retaliate. He strikes again and again till Sendak crumples on the floor, too weak to hit back.

“You’re dead already,” Keith roars down at him. “Give up!”

Sendak makes one last swipe at his legs, but Keith side-steps.

“So are you,” Sendak snarls at him. “So is your husband. Even if I don’t get you, someone will.”

“We have to go,” Hunk calls out and Keith spares one last look at Sendak. He’s on his knees, looking murderous and agitated. Keith has an option of ending his life now, of making sure that he can’t get resurrected and wreak havoc on them. It might even be a small act of mercy, finally freeing Sendak from whatever prison Honerva’s kept him in.

“Kill me,” Sendak snarls, looking straight at Keith. “Pull the trigger, you son of a-”

Keith whips him across the face with the butt of the gun again, and Sendak falls over onto his side. He groans and spits out more black liquid, his eyes scrunched tightly shut in pain.

“Keith!” Hunk calls out from across the room, and Keith spins around just in time to see the last standing guard launch at him. There’s a flash of silver and before Keith can do anything, the guard is stopped dead in their tracks. They start to sputter and gasp and choke as Lotor uses the chain of his cuffs to strangle them, flailing and grunting as he yanks the chain harder. They make one more weak noise before he lets go, dropping their limp body to the side.

“We need to dispose of him,” Lotor says, tipping his chin towards where Sendak’s still laying. He’s stopped making sounds, and his eyelids have relaxed, but Keith can see the most infinitesimal rise and fall of his chest.

“Too heavy,” Keith says briskly, shaking his head. “You’re coming with us.”

“Are you going to undo these?” Lotor jingles his cuffs in Keith’s direction, and Keith narrows his eyes. “So you still don’t trust me then.”

“We’ve known you for five minutes,” Hunk quips from the back. “We can bond later, but we have to hustle. Now. Kolivan’s still collecting data from the last message he sent me, but Shiro and Pidge went dark. We need to find them.”

Keith looks at Lotor one last time before pressing his lips in a thin line.

“Lead us to where they’d be,” Keith says tersely. “In the quickest route possible. No tricks. And then I’ll uncuff you.”

Lotor looks contemplatively at Keith, before he shrugs. “Sounds good to me,” he says, and lets Keith shove him out of the room.

 

* * *

 

 

They’re racing against the clock. They know that much.

Lotor leads them through the maze that makes up the first floor till they reach a non-descript door. It won’t give, but Keith shoots the lock and Hunk kicks it open. There’s a commotion in the distance, and Keith doesn’t doubt that there’s going to be more Galra henchmen descending on them, so he hustles them through the door quickly. He wants to use Lotor as a shield, but by the way that Honerva had looked at her son, he doesn’t think that’ll hold much water as a defence tactic.

They make it to the last floor, and the double doors out open a lot easier this time. Hunk has one of the batons he relieved a guard of, and they use it to bar the handles of the doors, temporarily preventing anyone from breaking through. There are two guards in that hall, but Hunk and Keith take them down with ease, covering their mouths so that they don’t alert their colleagues. Lotor’s sweating hard by now, his breathing gone ragged, and he shoots Keith a silent look as he continues to guide them.

Kolivan’s already waiting for them at the door to the lab where Lotor leads them to, and Keith feels dread when he sees his expression.

“Did you get what you need?” he asks, and Kolivan nods.

“Honerva’s not what she seems,” Kolivan says gravely, and Hunk snorts.

“I don’t think anyone here is,” he says, but Kolivan continues.

“She’s working on synthesizing a new type of quintessence and she’s been ingesting it herself,” Kolivan says. “But more importantly-”

An alarm sounds, muffled by the thick metal door they’re standing in front.

“Are they hooked up already?” Lotor asks, and turns to Keith. “We need to get in here.”

“I’ll stay outside with Kolivan,” Hunk says as Lotor moves forward to the keypad of the door. “You guys go.”

He punches in some numbers, and the door opens. Red lights flash and Keith nods before bursting into the lab, Lotor on his tail. The door slides shut behind them, right on Kolivan’s warning for them to be careful.

The sight that greets Keith is terrifying. His vision immediately tunnels in on Shiro strapped to a surgical table, convulsing as he’s covered in sweat. His head’s strapped down but it seems to be unable to withstand the force at which Shiro is shaking. Samuel Holt is sitting up on another table, muttering something to his son and Keith darts towards the table.

“Don’t touch him!” Holt calls out, and Matt’s joined Keith at the table before he can blink. “There’s something fully preventing him from gaining back his memories.”

“I’m turning it off,” Matt throws over his shoulder at his father, before pushing down one of Shiro’s shoulders. “Hold his head steady.”

Keith complies without a word, cupping Shiro’s face and holding his jaw. Matt shouts out something and Keith realizes that there’s a second room in the lab, a glass room where Pidge is sitting with a frantic look on her face, jamming the keys on a computer. The sound of the alarm turns off, but the red flashing lights continue and Keith can feel hard tremors rack through Shiro’s body.

He’s more terrified now than he had been when he had been staring down Honerva. Shiro looks deathly pale, and Keith has to squeeze his jaw to keep him steady. Matt tightens the strap around Shiro’s head and nods at Keith to let go. Matt fiddles with a few switches underneath the table, concentrated on Shiro’s face.

Shiro gasps awake, eyes shooting wide open.  Holt slides off his own table and yells something at Pidge, running towards the glass room. He slams the door behind him, just as Matt leans over Shiro to unstrap his head.

There’s something long and silver sticking out of Shiro’s ear, and Matt presses one hand down on his forehead as he extracts the long, thick needle. Shiro inhales sharply, and Matt presses his mouth in a firm line as he looks at Keith and pulls down Shiro’s oxygen mask.

“He’s going to be disoriented,” Matt says. “We don’t know how much he’s taken, so we need to be gentle.”

Keith’s already moving, already whispering to Shiro as he slides hands underneath his head and back. Shiro looks confused as he starts to sit up, looks around the room as Keith asks him if he’s okay. Keith tries to run soothing finger through his hair, but Shiro doesn’t respond to it. He just turns to look at Keith, and the relief of seeing Shiro makes Keith miss his unfocused gaze.

“What-” Shiro starts, but Keith has no self-restraint. He pushes forward to press a quick kiss against Shiro’s mouth before drawing back and taking a proper look at him.

“We don’t have much time,” Keith says. “Did it work?”

There’s a loud muffled _BANG_ that makes Keith jump. It’s come from behind the lab doors, and he looks wildly towards the door. He hears someone swearing on the other side, and tries to redirect his focus towards Shiro. And feels his heart drop when he sees that Shiro is looking at him in a painfully familiar way.

“Shiro?” Keith prompts, hoping that it’s just temporary dizziness that Shiro will snap out of. But whatever is in Shiro’s eyes goes a lot deeper than that.

“Keith!” Pidge has opened the door to her room, and is yelling out towards him. “I don’t think he’s-fuck!”

The computer beside her starts beeping loudly, and Keith sees Lotor run towards the glass room. He barks something at the Holts, and Keith hears him tell them that they don’t need to uncuff him, they just need to do what he says. Keith feels Shiro sway, and redirects his attention back towards him amongst the chaos. He can’t help but cup Shiro’s face, desperate to see recognition flit across it again.

“Sorry,” Shiro says quietly. Keith can feel his heart start to fracture hard as Shiro looks at him, lost in the flashing red lights. “I don’t think I know who you are.”

It’s hard not to scream. It’s hard not to let out a cry of anguish. Keith reminds himself that they need to move fast, that he doesn’t have the time nor allowance to acknowledge the way his heart has completely broken all over again. He’s joined by Holt at his side, who looks at Shiro with a deep furrow in his brow.

“There’s something that’s stopping him from getting his memories,” Holt repeats, and Shiro turns a puzzled look towards him as well. “And it’s putting him in danger every time he goes under. The only reason he’s not dying is because of the quintessence.”

“Quintessence?” It’s a slap in the face for Keith because— “Did Shiro die before?”

“What?” Holt shakes his head. “No, no. Before he escaped, he was injected with a new version of quintessence that makes him less susceptible to injuries. It makes you a stronger fighter.”

“But he had no side effects—” Keith starts off, but Holt cuts him off.

“The side effects are for the dead,” Holt says, and places a hand on Keith’s shoulder. “Shiro is very much part of the living.”

“Dad,” Pidge emerges from the glass room, jogging towards them. “Do you think it’d be the arm?”

“My what?” Shiro asks faintly, and looks like he finally realizes that his right arm’s not flesh. “What happened to me?”

“It’s okay,” Holt says, trying to make his frantic voice sound soothing. “You’re just in a bad state, but we’re going to get you out, okay? When you go under, you’ll know what to do.”

“What do you mean?” Shiro blinks, his words coming out slow. He blinks again, hard, and Keith’s starting to get concerned. Shiro’s eyes seem to unfocus further, and Keith’s heart starts to beat in his throat.

“We have to put him down again,” Pidge says, pulling the overhead lamp towards Shiro. “But I think we need to turn off his arm. Lotor said it could be trying to fry his synapses whenever he tries to access his memory. It’s something the Galra had put in to make sure he would never get it back”

“You’re going to trust Honerva’s son?” Matt says incredulously, and Pidge shakes her head.

“He thinks we’re fucked anyways,” she says. “He just hopes that if his mom finds out he helped us, that she’ll kill him quick.”

“He told you all of that?” Matt asks, pulling the oxygen mask back over Shiro’s face. Shiro says something, but there’s a soft _hiss_ and red air is released into the mask. His eyes start to droop, and Keith feels Shiro’s body slump in his hands.

“I inferred,” Pidge replies, helping Keith lay Shiro down on the table gently. “And I’m keeping watch.”

“If it doesn’t work after this, we’re leaving,” Keith says firmly. “I don’t care if he doesn’t get his memory back and I don’t give a fuck if he doesn’t remember me— remember us. Shiro needs to get out alive.”

“It’s far enough in that if this doesn’t work-” Holt starts, but gets interrupted by a loud _bang_ in the distance. “Shit.”

Pidge doesn’t wait for anyone to start saying anything; she turns Shiro’s prosthetic over in her arm and tucks her nail under one of the plates. She wriggles it a little, and it hisses open, rising up on two small legs and revealing a small control panel.

“I spent some time with Shiro’s arm,” is all that Pidge offers for an explanation. “Give me his other hand.”

Matt obeys, pushing Shiro’s left hand towards her. Pidge takes the thumb and lifts it up, pressing it against a small red pad on the panel. There’s muffled yelling in the distance and Keith knows the sand in their hourglass is running out fast. Shiro’s arm makes a loud clicking sound but Pidge presses a hand to Keith’s chest before he can even think about acting.

She punches in what he guesses is the kill code, because the board grows purple for a second before it completely turns off. There’s a loud _CRUNCH_ from the other side of the lab door, and the very audible sound of Hunk swearing and then laughing.

“He hated it the first time we did it,” Pidge says. “And I didn’t do it again. But this should stop whatever is trying to stop him.”

“You’ll need to step back,” Matt tells Keith, and Keith’s about to protest but both Holt siblings level him with looks that could shatter stones. He looks at Shiro one more time, dips over him quickly to brush his lips over Shiro’s damp forehead, then steps back.

Shiro’s head hides Matt re-inserting the needle, but Keith shudders anyways. The red lights flashing around them shut off, followed by the sound of a humming noise. It’s not loud, nor is it quiet; it rings at just the right level to creep into Keith’s brain as he watches the small red clouds in his husband’s oxygen mask grow darker.

“He’s officially under again,” Holt announces to the room at large as Matt moves to join Lotor in the glass room. “My imprint in his brain will still be there, so it’ll guide him again. It should take a fraction of the time it did when we first did it.

Matt pushes Lotor aside, mutters something to Lotor that makes Lotor’s face go dark. Lotor nods, and Matt takes over the computer.  There’s a banging on the door, and Keith hears Kolivan call his name. When the doors slide open again, Hunk and Kolivan stand in carnage. Kolivan’s knuckles are split wide open, while Hunk’s sporting a hefty black eye. Keith doesn’t bother looking at the ground, knowing they’ve gotten rid of whatever guards had charged them.

“No one else is coming,” Hunk says, spitting out some blood and wiping his mouth. “I think we scared them good. All we have to do is wait for Honerva.”

“Wait,” Holt says from behind, shoving past Keith to take a look at them. “No more guards have come in how long?”

“Five minutes,” Kolivan replies, and Holt frowns deeply. “On the dot.”

“Honerva won’t come down,” Holt says grimly, and looks at Keith. “This isn’t good.”

“What do you mean?” Keith asks, but gets his answer almost immediately.

It starts faint, a series of sirens being turned on in the distance. The sound catches up quickly as alarms start blaring in the hall that they stand in. The lights start to flash a vivid green, as does the light in the lab.

“Forty-five minutes to evacuate,” Holt says, looking up. “They’re going to destroy this place.”

“What— destroy?” Keith looks frantically between Holt and Kolivan, both of whom are wearing grave expressions.

“They must have gotten wind of a data breach,” Holt says, looking at Kolivan. “There’s practically nothing you can do to stop them from finding out. And if they don’t source it fast enough, they’ll kill everything. They probably know it came with you guys. They’ll run now and catch you later.”

“We have our men stationed outside,” Kolivan says. “If they’re fleeing, we’ll catch them.”

“Okay, then what about us?” Keith says, gesturing back towards Shiro. “How much time does he need?”

“I don’t know,” Holt presses his lips in a thin line. “He has a lot of information to unpack, and he can get to it fast but I don’t know how long it’ll take for him to get adjusted and he needs-”

“Pidge!” Keith cuts Holt off. They need to act fast, and Keith’s determined to get as many people out of here alive as possible. He’s not in the mood for dying either, but he can’t have all of them stick back with him. He needs to focus on saving Shiro, and he needs them to get out of the building before it self-destructs.

Pidge materializes beside him, and Keith presses the gun he had tucked into his waistband, into her hands. “Take your brother and father and leave. Kolivan and Hunk will go with you. Get out of here as fast as you can, okay?”

“What about you and Shiro?” Pidge asks, and Keith shakes his head.

“Let me worry about us,” he says, and then gives her a firm look. “I’ll get us out. But I need you guys to get out safe too, and we can’t do that if you’re waiting around for us.”

Pidge looks like she wants to protest, but Holt puts a hand on her shoulder. She looks at him, frowns, and then looks back at Keith and nods. She goes to retrieve Matt from the glass room; Matt shakes her head, tells her something low that Keith can’t hear. He _does_ hear Pidge tell Matt that “I’m not going to lose you again,” but Matt cuts her off. Whatever he tells her enrages her but works, because she storms out of the room and towards Keith.

“We’re leaving,” she tells her father. “Matt’s staying back to help Keith. Says they need at least one person who knows the procedure and the building, and that he doesn’t want Lotor to be that person.”

Pidge doesn’t allow anyone to say anything else; she grabs her father by one elbow and marches towards Hunk. Kolivan looks like he’s torn for a second, like he wants to stay. Keith shakes his head, so Kolivan reaches out and grasps Keith’s forearm in a handshake. He slides back, and presses something into Keith’s hand. It’s a small black pager.

“None of us are afraid to run back into fire if needed,” Kolivan says. Keith nods and within a fraction of a second, Kolivan is hustling the other three down the hall. Keith watches as they retreat into the distance, illuminated by the flashing lights, and hopes to God that they find their way out.

Keith closes the door to the lab again and it muffles some of the alarms. The sound is still nerve-wracking, but Keith redirects his attention to Shiro and joins Matt in the glass room.

Shiro’s not convulsing like he had been before, but he’s still sweating under the white glow from the overhead lamp. It’s a small comfort that Shiro doesn’t have the same, slick sheen that Lotor and Sendak have, but hearing Shiro had ingested some form of quintessence had been one gut punch after another for Keith. He wants to believe Holt that it’s not the same, but his own experience with the people who have been pumped with have been limited and horrifying, and Keith can’t help but feel a wave of unease for what this means.

It’s the longest ten minutes of Keith’s life, but he’s simultaneously acutely aware of just how close they’re cutting the line. He doesn’t know how Shiro’s going to come out on the other end, and he also doesn’t know what’s going to be waiting for them once they leave the lab. In a clean run, it shouldn’t take them more than ten minutes to clear the place, but Keith’s a fool if he thinks he’s going to be able to run out of the facility with no problem.

Lotor’s slipping too, in the glass room. Keith’s uncuffed him, half on promise and half because he looks too weak to do anything. Lotor closes his eyes for a good thirty seconds, and Matt has to shake him to bring him back. He refuses more quintessence, tells Matt he’s finally on the path he’s been trying to get on since he had touched back down with a new lease on life.

“Five more minutes,” Matt murmurs, staring at the computer screen. It’s monitoring Shiro’s vitals, along with a running window of data that Keith can’t parse at the rate it’s going. “And then we need to cut it, no matter what.”

Keith grunts in agreement, while Lotor shoots them a hazy look.

“We need to check him after,” he says, and his voice sounds like he’s incredibly nauseous. The stench in the glass room is unbearably fetid, but it’s the last thing on Keith’s mind as he watches Shiro on the table. “If you want your husband back for good-”

“I don’t give a fuck right now,” Keith cuts back sharply. “I know he wants his memories back and we’re trying, but I _need_ him alive. I don’t care if he doesn’t remember me.”

And at the core of it, it _is_ the truth. It’ll hurt for Shiro to forget him, but it’s already happened once. Keith’s filled the cracks in his heart with concrete and he’d rather the man he loves be alive, even if it comes at the cost of losing the love he gets back.

The flashing lights melt from green to blue, indicating the thirty minute countdown according to Matt and Lotor.

“Twenty seconds,” Matt says, before pushing back from the computer. “Stay here with him.”

Matt leaves the glass room to make his way over to Shiro, and Keith looks down at the computer when he starts to remove the needle again. When he looks back up, Matt’s unstrapping Shiro from the table. Keith joins Matt at the table once he gets the OK, helping Matt sit Shiro up.

“Shiro?” Keith says, and Shiro’s eyelids are barely open. He makes a sound of pain and sways again on the table, but when he opens his eyes again it seems more focused.

“We need to hustle,” Matt says, looking around the room. “We don’t have long.”

“You should check him,” Lotor calls out; he’s left the glass room as well, propping himself against the wall. He looks like he’s barely holding up, and a cloud of death hangs above him. “If this place goes, so does anything you can do to fix him.”

“We don’t have time,” Keith shoots back, because they truly don’t. Shiro’s vitals seem alright according to the monitors at the foot of the table, and that’s all that Keith needs for now. “Can we turn his arm back on?”

“Better not to,” Matt says. “We don’t know what’ll happen. Let’s run.”

Keith and Matt each sling an arm around their shoulder and heave Shiro off of the surgical table. A sigh of relief washes through Keith as Shiro doesn’t completely drop into dead weight— he looks like he finds some footing, moving his feet as Keith and Matt start to head towards the door, but he’s still unresponsive when Keith keeps repeating his name.

“We’ll be fine,” Keith mutters under his breath, for both Shiro and himself. “We’ll be fine, I’ll get us out.”

Lotor tails them as they start to make their hasty exit, but it's clear that he's struggling to keep up. Keith’s suspicious— for all the talk that Lotor had about wanting to die, he seems to be determined to make it out with them. He leaves dark smears along the wall as he stumbles behind them, towards the doors to the stairwell.

The baton they had used to bar the handles has been snapped in half and the doors stand wide ajar, but the stairwell seems empty. They only make it one floor up before they hear yelling from the floor above. Without a second thought, Matt and Keith haul Shiro through the door.

“I thought you wanted to die,” Matt throws back at Lotor, and Lotor shakes his head. There’s a sick squelching sound when he does so, and it makes Keith nauseous.

“I do and I will,” Lotor’s voice comes out rough like sandpaper. He covers his mouth and gives a harsh cough; when he draws his hand back, it’s covered in dark coagulated phlegm. “I’m trying to help.”

“I still don’t trust you,” Keith grunts out as he and Matt continue to try and jog, bearing Shiro’s weight. “Is there another staircase?”

“There’s the freight elevator but it might be on lock-down,” Matt says, looking around. “I think one of the rooms here also has a door to another stairwell.”

“Down another hall,” Lotor says, and he stops dead in his tracks. He coughs hard, splattering the floor with the same black substance that he’s been hacking up. “One of the guard’s quarters, but we don’t have much time.”

“You really don’t,” comes terrifyingly refined voice from behind them. They freeze as the lights overhead fade into a stark white colour. Lotor’s the first to turn around and come face to face with his mother marching down the hall towards them. She looks significantly more dishevelled and a lot more furious, but her voice remains even and steady.

“After the detonation sequence sets off, you have four minutes per floor,” Lotor says under his breath. “This is why I followed you. Go.”

“It’s so good to see you again,” Honerva calls out, and Keith can see the intent in her eyes from the distance. “Your father misses you.”

“I don’t think anyone here’s been missing me,” Lotor replies, and squares his shoulders. He starts trudging towards his mother, clearly struggling to move with each step. Each flash of the light shows the sweat on his skin, each flash of the light shows something black trickling from Lotor’s scalp down his long white hair.

From where Keith stands, Lotor dwarfs his mother, and he raises his arms wide.

“Mother,” he croaks, curling and uncurling his fists. Given Honerva’s coldness towards her son from before, Keith doubts that this will be a distraction that lasts long, so he and Matt turn tail without sticking around to see what happens.

“Do you really want them more than you want to save me?” Keith hears Lotor say, voice receding in the distant. “Do you really want them more than you want to save him?”

“Him?” Keith mouths at Matt, but Matt shakes his head and cranes his neck to see if there are any more surprises around the corner they’re turning.

It takes a blessedly short amount of time for them to find the room that Lotor had been talking about. It’s got a steel table propped up in front of it, but Matt leaves Shiro with Keith to kick it out of the way. Keith tries not to pay attention to how Shiro’s not supporting himself on his feet anymore or how much heavier he’s getting, even after Matt comes back to help him prop Shiro up.

“I think he’s slipping,” Matt says, and Keith bites the inside of his cheek so he doesn't get distracted by being frantic. “Shit, he’s getting heavier.”

They manage to shuffle up the stairs, hopping up one more floor till they’ve reached the first sub-floor. Shiro feels like a sack of bricks now, and he’s started to sweat. It’s not a trick of the light that he’s getting paler, nor that the rise and fall of his chest has grown shallow. The staircase leading up to the first ground floor is incredibly long and Matt casts Keith a worried look.

There’s a loud clatter from above them and more yelling, and they change course immediately, kicking open the door for the floor they’re on. Keith knows there’s another route up, straight through—

“We need to go through Zarkon’s lab,” Matt says over the perpetually ringing alarm. “And we need to inject Shiro with the quintessence. I think taking a trip down memory lane overloaded him and his body’s starting to shut down.”

Keith’s about to voice his concerns, but remembers Holt’s words about Shiro being part of the living. If Shiro’s slipping fast, if they wait too long for the quintessence, they might end up putting him in the same state that Lotor and Sendak and so many other Galra guards exist in.

This floor’s empty as well, papers scattered all over. Keith sees a guard slumped in the corner, a wall streaked black behind them, and hopes its his friends doing and that they’ve made it out. He has faith in them and he thinks that he, Shiro, and Matt have the bigger targets on their backs anyways.

Zarkon’s lab is at the end of a small branch in the hall, and Matt punches in the code for it.

“Lotor gave it to me,” he says without Keith asking, and they haul Shiro in as the doors slide open.  The lights are flashing in the lab as well, and Matt and Keith guide Shiro over to a large filing cabinet. Gently, they lower him onto the ground and prop him against the filing cabinet. Matt leaves them, and Keith cups Shiro’s face, slaps it lightly to try and get it to respond.

Shiro’s still breathing, and his brow is pinched. He’s murmuring something weak under his breath but when Keith tries to respond, his head falls forward and hangs like a ragdoll. Keith pushes it back up against the cabinet, leans forward to press a kiss against Shiro’s forehead but nothing happens.

“You have to stay with me,” Keith tells him, trying to be gentle as he smooths his hands down Shiro’s neck to keep his head stable. “You have to stay with me, okay? I’m going to be pissed if I went through all this trouble and you died.”

“So would I,” Matt says as he approaches them again. He’s got four wrappers on a small surgical tray with him. He places the tray on the ground beside Shiro, and pulls at one of the wrappers with his teeth.

“This is stronger than the stuff they gave Sendak,” Matt explains as he pulls back plastic to reveal a hard-shell case. “Whatever they gave them keeps him going for a few hours before he crashes. This is what Lotor got. This stuff lasts.”

Matt pops open the case, and keeps talking when he sees Keith’s concerned look towards the syringe and needle that sits in it. “Even if he’s shutting down, he’s still alive. He’ll be fine if he has this.”

“How long does it take to act?” Keith asks, watching as Matt taps the syringe before pressing his fingers against Shiro’s neck and pulling. Matt doesn’t reply till the injection is complete, and he tosses the syringe off to the side before picking up cotton and patting the side of Shiro’s neck.

“A few minutes,” Matt says, and the lights overhead turn a vivid pink. Keith blinks, frowns. “But then he’ll be good to go for sure. We won’t even have to carry him.”

“A few minutes?” He says, and Matt nods. “You need to go.”

“What?” It’s Matt’s turn to look incredulous, and Keith grabs his shoulders. Matt tries to resist but Keith’s stronger with will as he hauls him to his feet.

“I have the place memorized,” Keith taps his temple. “You need to go. I want as many people out alive as possible, and you’ll be able to blend in and get out easy.”

“I’m going to stay back,” Matt insists, pushing Keith’s hands off of him. “What the fuck, Keith?”

“Look,” Keith casts a glance downwards at Shiro. There’s been no immediate change to him. “We’re running out of time, and you’re still in your guard uniform so you’ll be able to get out easy, right? And you said that it’s a sure thing that he’ll be able to move on his own.”

“That doesn’t matter, I’m still-”

“If anything happens to you while you’re with us,” Keith hisses. “If anything happens to all of us, Pidge is going to pump me full of quintessence just so that she can kill me again, okay? I have Shiro, but Pidge has your dad and you and I don’t think she can go through losing you a second time.”

Matt protests again, but Keith decides to grab him and strongarm him towards what’s labeled as an emergency exit. Matt swears, flails, but Keith’s got resolve and though they struggle towards the door, Keith ultimately wins.

“You need to go,” he tells Matt firmly as he pries open the door. “Get out safe, or I’ll kill you.”

Matt looks like he’s about to loudly protest again, but Keith levels him with a look that has him deflating fast.

“Fine,” he concedes, and slips past the door. He unhooks his baton, but Keith pushes his wrist away before he can hand it over. “Don’t die on me.”

“I’ve made it this far,” Keith says in what he hopes is a determined voice. “I’ll be fucked if I don’t make it to the end.”

The door closes on Matt snarking him, and Keith shoots him a short salute through the tiny glass window before he retreats back to Shiro. Shiro’s breathing has risen, has grown deeper, but he’s still unresponsive as Keith tries to prod him. Keith pulls at the sleeve of his jacket and wipes at Shiro’s forehead, and no new sweat replaces it.

Keith’s palms are sweating as he stands up again, and he wipes them off on his jeans. He looks around the room, trying to take in where they are. It’s hard under the flashing pink lights to get the full scope of the lab, but there are three large tubes just off centre in the room.

One of them emits a deep gold light, and Keith casts a quick look around the room before he drifts towards it. He glances back at Shiro, and hears him groan and shift in his seat. His eyes are still closed, so Keith allows himself a quick minute of exploring.

The tubes are chambers, and the first two are empty. One’s inscribed with _Alfor_ , while the other has a blank nameplate. The third one has a body in it, one that looks like it’s been long withered as it sits submerged in the golden liquid. The nameplate at the bottom has one giant _Z_ inscribed onto it, and Keith realizes that he’s looking at a corpse.

The man has a strong jaw, but his skin has decayed and shrivelled to the point where he looks mummified. It has an odd deep purple tinge to it, and his stomach still has its death-bloat preserved. Keith can see chunks of black floating in the liquid, and he doesn’t even try to imagine what they are. He rounds the tube, and sees a small screen fixed near what appears to be a latch to the tube.

It’s monitoring the body’s vitals, and the body has no heartbeat. There’s a small icon on the screen that’s got a graph on it, and Keith presses it. Immediately, charts flash across the screen, and he selects what looks like the intake report. Up close, the body has no eyelids, and empty eyes stare out from under the glass.

Confirming his guess, it states that this body belongs to Zarkon. Keith manages to catch the line that he had been deceased for three weeks before he was submerged in quintessence, before there’s a loud slamming sound from the entryway to the lab.

“Step away,” Honerva says. Her hair looks significantly more unkempt and she’s holding a black, dripping baton in her hand. Her hands are covered in the black substance as well, and given the lack of Lotor, Keith can only guess at what transpired.

“What is that?” Keith says, acutely aware that they’re burning through time like fire.

“ _That_ is my husband,” Honerva spits, starts inching towards Keith. She doesn’t seem to see Shiro propped up behind the cabinet, and Keith tries to keep her focus on him so that she doesn’t. “I said step away!”

“How long has he been dead?” Keith looks at the screen from the corner of his eyes. It’s hard to pick up what any of the symbols mean when he has Honerva advancing on him, smelling like rotting fruit.

“He’s not dead,” Honerva snaps, and her gold eyes shine through in the dark. Keith remembers Kolivan talking about the new quintessence she had been making and ingesting, and wonders how deep into it she’s drowned herself. “He’s just waiting.”

“He’s dead,” Keith reiterates, and Honerva screams as she launches at him. She’s incredibly strong but unhinged, and Keith catches her and slams her down against one of the empty tubes.

“You put it into my son’s head that he wanted to die,” Honerva snarls as she catches him across the face with the baton, and he feels something warm bloom down his face as searing pain shoots through his nose. “ _You_ made me kill him!”

The words and the pain blend together and ignite some type of anger within Keith, because Honerva’s looking at him like he’s the one who tore apart _her_ family. Fury starts to boil within him, molten hot and directed towards the woman who’s slipping out of his hold underneath him.

“ _You were going to use my husband’s body for a rotting brain!_ ” Keith yells at her, grabbing her wrist before she can swing again. There’s rage coursing through him, rage like no other as Honerva jams her legs against his thighs and kicks him off hard.

Keith stumbles back, hitting Zarkon’s tube with a loud thunk. Honerva immediately leaps up and in the small space, charges Keith immediately. He rolls away just in time, and she sends an ominous whack across the glass wall of the chamber instead. The glass cracks, sending a large line up the length of it and Honerva stares down wide-eyed at it. A small alarm blares from the tube, drowned under the alarm from the building.

“Give it up,” Keith grunts, grabbing Honerva by the wrist when she launches again. He manages to pry the baton from her, but they still struggle. “You can’t have Shiro. You’re nothing but a shitty necromancer.”

“I don’t need Shiro,” Honerva hisses and manages to free an arm. “I can find a hundred men like him that would be better for my husband.”

She slashes out, clawing across Keith’s face. It catches some of his skin but he ducks back before it her nails hit his eyes, and tries to kick her feet out from underneath her. The pink lights turn to red, and he knows they’re almost out of time. She manages to catch him by the throat and Keith immediately tries to lash out.

“I swear to fucking god, I’m going to-” Keith starts, but he’s unable to pry Honerva off. He’s cut off by her hand squeezing around his neck _hard_.

“You think you’re something feral to be feared?” Honerva growls, eyes practically bulging out of her head. Keith struggles but Honerva has the strength of three men, and finds himself getting raised onto his toes as she starts to crush his windpipe. “Think I’m scared because you think you have my blood in your scent?”

Honerva spins on her heel and slams Keith down on her husband’s chamber. The crack of the glass deepens, and Keith has no room to gasp in pain. She leans down till he can see the gold swirling in her iris and the way the veins in her sclera bulge.

“I’ll always had and always will have my eye on you. There’s nowhere you can run where I can’t find you,” her breath washes over him, hot. Underneath them, he hears a distant rumble. The very last basement floor of the facility has started to self-destruct.

“Your husband’s dead,” Keith manages to choke out, and Honerva screeches in his face before she lifts him up and slams him down against the ground.

He finally gasps, his throat no longer constricted, but he has no time to act because Honerva kicks his back hard enough to flip him over. Keith tries to prop himself up on his hands, can feel the floor vibrating, but Honerva lands another blow on him knocking him down flat.

“He’s not dead, you son of a bitch,” she spits on him, before sloppily stepping backwards to the tube. She punches something into the small screen, and Keith hears whirring in the distance. He tries to catch his breath, and he feels harsh bruising start to form around his neck.

The room is suddenly filled with the most awful smell Keith’s ever experienced. It’s a thousand times worse than Lotor and Sendak had been combined, mixed in with the stench of formaldehyde and something sickly sweet. There’s a burbling sound in the distance, and Keith coughs onto the ground before he manages to prop himself up again.

“Your grief barely took you anywhere,” Honerva says, and there’s a sick squelching sound coming from the chamber. “See how far I went with mine. My grief _saved_ him.”

It had been unnerving to find out that Lotor and Sendak had been part of the dead. It had been unnerving to know that the Galra had built a culture around resurrecting the dead and pushing them in the name of scientific. It’s beyond any sort of comprehension, the feeling Keith gets when he sees Zarkon’s corpse slowly sit up, splashing yellow liquid everywhere.

“Honerva,”  the creature - _Zarkon_ \- rasps, like its windpipe has had holes punctured in.

“He’s trying to kill me,” Honerva points towards Keith, and Zarkon turns his decomposed face towards Keith. There’s an audible wet sound when he does so, and Keith immediately tries to scramble to his feet.

Zarkon has none of the sluggishness Sendak and Lotor had near the end. He vaults out of his chamber and onto his feet with a loud, wet thud and starts treading towards Keith. He’s fast, and before Keith can get fully on his feet, Zarkon’s got a hand in his hair and is yanking him up. Keith yelps in pain, gasps and gets a mouthful of the smell of dead meat. It makes him gag, and Zarkon encircles a hand around Keith’s throat.

Up close, his sclera is a filthy yellow, his irises an odd shade of faded purple that look at Keith with too much intent for something so dead. The mucus-drenched hand squeezes around Keith hard, starting to crush his airway as Zarkon starts to lift him up in a mirror of what his wife had done. The floor rumbles louder underneath them

He has no intention on dying here, so Keith flails, kicks out, tries his best to rip himself out of Zarkon’s grip. But Zarkon— Zarkon is too strong in an inhuman way. Keith can’t imagine the level of potency the quintessence pumping through Zarkon has, that brought him back to life three weeks after he died. This was what Honerva had been developing, what she must have been testing on herself because the tips of Zarkon’s fingers are a bleach white too.  Love has kept Zarkon alive in the worst way possible, long after he should have been let go.

Keith’s vision starts to vignette at the corners as he tries to grasp onto Zarkon’s forearm and pry it off. His skin feels like overly-soft leather and gives under Keith’s fingers in a sickening way. He flails, tries to tuck his chin, but Zarkon’s grip is an unforgiving vice around his neck. Zarkon turns around, and starts to walk Keith towards Honerva. Keith tries to get him in the shin and he _hears_ the crack of the bone but Zarkon only stumbles before he continues to drag Keith.

“Kill him,” Keith hears Honerva command from behind him. “Kill him before he kills me.”

Keith gives one last fighting shout and does his best to swing his legs and deliver a hard kick to Zarkon’s hip socket. It lands hard enough to make Zarkon fold, but his stranglehold remains. Zarkon opens his mouth, so wide that it looks like his jaw is unhinging, and Keith can hear the slight tear of skin.

Zarkon lets out a roar of fury, his lack of eyelids causing his dark yellow eyes to protrude in a grotesque manner. Keith feels bile rushing up his throat and he realizes with a panic that it’s going to make him choke, going to kill him faster than Zarkon strangling him will.  Keith’s almost blacked out, almost gone, his head is light and the corpse in front of him is a blur and—

Keith can’t figure out what it is at first. Something bright white with a pink hue bursts through Zarkon’s chest, and Zarkon immediately lets out a wretched scream. His grip on Keith eases in a way that has Keith falling forward, onto the white heat. He yelps loud as his skin sizzles and sears and burning pain shoots through his face. Immediately, it yanks away, cracking and squelching as it retreats through Zarkon’s body.

Zarkon slumps forward onto his knees, finally letting go of Keith. Keith stumbles to the side, gasping for air, even though it’s incredibly fetid.  Stinging pain sings across the right side of Keith’s face but he pays it no attention as he watches Zarkon crumple and fall over, Shiro standing behind him. His chest is heaving and his hand hangs beside him, the white glow slowly fading.

“Shiro,” Keith says, voice hoarse. He can still feel the ghost of Zarkon’s grip, and Shiro looks at him wide-eyed from where he stands. Shiro looks wild, untamed, blood-thirsty like this and Keith needs to know if—

Suddenly, there’s a loud rumble directly beneath them from where they’re standing. The room rattles around them, glass vibrating against shelves and Shiro starts to look disoriented, woozy. Keith is about to rush to him, but Honerva shoves him over, screeching as she rushes to Zarkon’s side.

“What did you do to him?” Honerva screeches, grabbing the decayed body of her long-dead husband. She looks even more manic like this, her hair billowing out beside her as she stares wide-eyed at Keith with rage and fury and an all-encompassing fire. She has none of the polish left that she had when he first saw her. “You killed my husband!”

“He was already dead!” Keith spits out, but she doesn’t listen.  Honerva shoves a hand into a lab coat, pulling out a small plastic package. It’s got a needle in it, the vial filled with gold but before she can rip it open, Shiro grabs her wrist from behind. Honerva freezes, and suddenly, there’s a loud rumble around them.

The lamps rattle and Keith realizes that destruction has reached the floor they’re on. All three of them go wide-eyed, but Honerva is the first to yank her arm free from Shiro’s grip. She leaps to her feet, clutching the package in a death grip and in a fraction of a second, is barrelling towards the door.

Keith is fast to act, jumping up and taking off after her, Shiro close behind. Keith hears a clatter, and looks over to see Shiro stumble over nothing, steadying himself on a surgical table. Keith doubles back, grabbing Shiro’s arm to support him but Shiro shakes him off.

“The woman,” his voice is hoarse and sickly, but he shoves Keith off of him with enough strength. Keith falters for a moment but hears the bang of the lab door hitting the wall. He kicks off again, sprinting just in time to kick the door open so hard that the knob breaks the drywall.

She’s still within reach so Keith pushes and pushes despite his body screaming against him, determined to bring her down. Keith does a running jump onto her, tackling Honerva onto the ground. He rolls mid-air so that he can catch the brunt of the fall and sling an arm in a bar across her chest as she struggles.

“Leave me!” Honerva spits, rage and fury as the simmering heat of a distant explosion starts to make itself known. She tries to bite his forearm but Keith grits his teeth through it, ensuring the taller woman doesn’t get to escape. “Leave me or kill me!”

“You don’t get that choice,” he yells into her ear as Shiro catches up and grabs Honerva by the shoulders. Keith lets go as Shiro hauls her up. Honerva tries to claw at Shiro’s face, catching him across his jaw, but he strongarms her hands behind her back as Keith springs to his feet. He grabs Honerva’s elbow just as there’s a loud ticking sound, and the lab behind them explodes, glass shattering out.

“We have to go,” Keith tells Shiro as a huge wave of heat hits them, and they each grab a side of Honerva and start to run. She screams as they take her in tow, hauling her across the halls as rooms detonate behind them.

Keith leads, willing himself to accurately remember the map of the facility. He kicks down a stairwell door, shoving Shiro and Honerva through. They’re practically lifting her as she keeps yelling at them to throw her into the fire, to let her go, that they can’t kill her and that they _should_ kill her. Keith tries his best to ignore it all as they haul her up the stairs, guided by the flashing red emergency lights. Dust falls from the ceiling as everything rattles again, and Keith’s body screams from the exertion he’s putting it through.

They push till they reach the first floor above ground. It’s long been deserted; presumably, all of the Galra have already fled after the emergency alarm. There are papers and bodies scattered all over; Keith recognizes the bright green handle of a pocket knife sticking out of someone’s forehead and prays that this is a good sign. The body lolls its head and as his party darts by it, Keith swears it blinks at him.

They run down the empty hall, just as another ticking sound starts. It’s hard to tell where it’s coming from, but as they approach a bend, Keith realizes that they’re going towards the sound.

“Turn around,” he yells at Shiro, Honerva still screaming as they pivot. Keith hears the loud _BOOM_ as they run, and the heat tries to wrap its fingers around his neck. There’s an alternate exit, and the next ticking sound comes from further behind them so Keith sets course for it.

They cut through empty offices and broken down labs, and Keith is three seconds away from completely knocking Honerva out. But he can’t afford the time it takes to completely subdue a person of her strength so he grips tight as they flee. She’s gone hoarse and illegible now, and the whites of her fingers have extended into her palms, colouring her skin a deathly pale shade.

They reach one of the doors at the front, far-right side of the building.  It needs a handprint to go through, and Keith tries to wrench one of Honerva’s hands forward. She uses the action as an opportunity to flip control, yanking with her elbow hard enough for Keith to feel pain tear through his shoulder.

He unwillingly lets go, and she uses the newly free hand to punch Shiro. Shiro is still sluggish and she hits him square in the face, getting him in the cartilage of his nose. He grunts in pain, blood blooming from his nostrils. But he’s quick in catching her next punch by her wrist and squeezing with his prosthetic hand until her eyes widen in pain.

Keith pries open her fingers and slams her hand down on the lock, willing it to scan fast. It takes an eternity for the sliding locks of the door to click open. And in that eternity, there’s a loud _TK TK TK_ and it takes Keith less than a second to realize it’s coming from directly above them. The three of them freeze, and Honerva grins wide, grins toothy, grins significantly more manic than she had been before.

“Fuck,” Keith swears. Honerva truly struggles this time, whipping her arms and kicking her feet as the ticking grows faster.  The door beeps and he throws it open, shoving everyone out just as the final tick echoes through the halls.

Keith brings up the rear and pushes the other two forward fast, just as the hall detonates. He shields them both from the ball of heat and sound and fire and shock that bursts through the building, and feels the clothes on his back singe as the three of them launch into the dirt.

Everything after is a haze.

Keith feels pain like he’s never felt before, feels it rack his body like an assault. Searing heat washes through him and rolls onto his back, yelling out in pain. Tinnitus hits him hard, and the loud ringing in his ears drown out whatever commotion is going on around him. Keith tries to breathe but it’s hard, so hard, and he coughs up something wet. It hurts to tilt his head but it does it of its own accord, and out of his peripheral, he sees Honerva crawl unsteadily to her feet.

He tries to call out Shiro’s name, but only a garbled rasp comes out of his throat as he sees Honerva sway, figure distorted in the waves of heat. His vision blurs, but he can tell that she’s staring at him. She spits out something at him but he can’t tell, the ringing in his ears getting louder and louder till it’s a javelin through his brain. She stalks out of his frame of sight and he tries to reach out, but his arm flops uselessly.

Keith looks up skyward, feels the heat of a burning building creep over him. He feels a whirlwind of pain, feels woozy like he’s about to pass out soon. He can’t quantify whether his head is light and dizzy or feels like lead; all he registers is pain and fire and the shrill sound in his ears. He needs to gather himself and find Shiro. The night sky is lit with the flames, and his vision goes in and out.

Suddenly, it’s obscured. Shiro’s face comes into his view like a holy angel, saying something that Keith can’t register. Light flickers across a worried face, and Keith manages to gather enough strength to raise his hand. He cups Shiro’s face and tries to memorise the shape of his jaw and the feel of his skin under his scraped palms.

“Did you get your memory back?” Keith rasps, hoping that sound’s able to make it out of his mouth. He hates that he’s finally gotten a chance to ask, and can’t even hear anything.  “Do you remember me?”

Keith thinks that Shiro tells him that he needs to stay with him, needs to stay conscious. It’s not an answer but Keith thinks that still, seeing Shiro’s face as he slides a hand under Keith’s head— this is a better way to die than most. With his other hand, Shiro puts something plastic in his teeth and pulls. Keith blacks out for a second before he hears Shiro calling his name. It’s the only thing he can make out through the ringing, and Keith opens his eyes again. The side of his neck pulses, and his vision is definitely vignetting.

He’s trying to hold on, but Keith knows he’s slipping fast into the void. He’s got a small amount of strength left, and he uses it to try and focus on Shiro’s face.

“I’m so sorry Shiro,” Keith tries to say. It comes out sputtering and Shiro replies, but Keith can’t hear it.  “I love you so much. I love you, I love you, I love you-”

Shiro leans down and Keith feels the ghost of something dust across his forehead. It’s a kiss, he belatedly thinks, he belatedly realizes. Keith doesn’t have enough faculty to dwell on what it means, doesn’t have enough strength to figure out whether he’s succeeded or not.

So he zeroes in on  the barely-there pressure, and takes that feeling with him when he blacks out.

 


	11. Chapter 11

 

Shiro gasps awake, his chest constricting as he feels a blaze of heat across his face, across his arms. He can’t move for a second, paralyzed by fear and confusion and pain and pain and _pain_. Rich orange and red lights and flames dance in front of him and for a second, Shiro panics. It’s not till he starts grasping around and feels the worn upholstery of the couch that he starts to ground himself.

He knows where he is. It’s not in whatever hellish dreamscape his brain’s cooked up, not at some blown out facility lost in the desert foothills. It’s on an old leather couch in a small ranch house, nestled in an old farm in Ramona. Shiro hadn’t meant to fall asleep there, but he had been exhausted when he sat down and had forgotten to get up.

His hands twitch and Shiro curls and uncurls his fingers to bring himself back to the present. He’s not had a dream this intense for a while. Moonlight filters in through the undrawn curtains, illuminating the dipping and rising hills and brushes in the distance. Shiro rotates his neck and works out the stiffness as he tries to bring his heartbeat down.

If he closes his eyes right now he might fall back into the nightmare before it starts to fade, so he finds something to focus on. There’s a glass sitting on the coffee table, quarter filled with water, and Shiro directs his attention towards it. He starts counting back from a hundred as he stares at his faint reflection in the glass, and it takes him till sixty-eight to get his heart rate back to normal. He still feels that phantom weight, even as he lets his arms drop to his side, but that’s always the last to go.

The air slowly stops smelling like it’s burning, and Shiro lets out a deep exhale. His shoulders feel stiff, even when he tries to roll them, and Shiro gives up on trying to work out any of the tension.  He’s still bone-tired, but he figures passing out on a bed will be a little more comfortable than passing out on a sofa so he slowly heaves himself up.

The thin socks he wears makes him quiet against the hardwood floors. Shiro counts what he sees as he moves. Three books sitting on top of a barely-used recliner. A lone coffee mug. Five hens in a painting that the old owner of this house had left behind. Each familiar shapes to Shiro, each reminding him of what his reality is. Each reminding him that whatever pain he dreams of has been left behind in that dream.

By the time he reaches the bedroom, the vivid colors of it have faded away, leaving nothing but a dark void.

 

* * *

 

The skin on the back of Shiro’s neck has long grown warm from the rising afternoon sun. The black metal hood of the pickup truck doesn’t make it any better, but he’s fine with the sweat and the grease and the heat. If he doesn’t change the battery now, he’s never going to get around to doing it. The truck’s going to be going on a long trip out to the east coast and Shiro would rather it not die out in the corner of Oklahoma.

He grunts as he unscrews the last bracket, prosthetic catching in the metal. It’s been almost a year since he’s had it, and he’s gotten used to carrying out most tasks with it, but he’s still a little clumsy here and there. The fingers on this prosthetic aren’t as tapered as the last one, but this prosthetic also isn’t trying to shut his brain down intermittently.

Shiro uses the towel slung around his neck to wipe at his forehead, belatedly remembering that he had used it to wipe the dipstick instead of using the rag sticking out of his pocket. There’s no point trying to wipe his face with the back of his streaked hands, so he lets the oil smudge remain on his skin.

The battery pops out easily, and Shiro’s hand doesn’t catch when he places in the new one. He’s got to still hammer out a dent in the passenger door, but after this the truck’s good to go. Shiro debates on finishing it up later on; he’s already been out for hours, and thinks his shoulders are starting to veer on getting sunburnt. It feels like he’s forgetting something, but he can’t quite place what.

He’s not going to dwell too long on it though. He’s sure he’s going to figure out sooner or later. Shiro knows he’s still got to fight the perpetual need to be always _doing_. Let a quiet moment live a little, he had been told many months ago by someone who didn’t quite grasp what quiet fully meant to Shiro at the time. They had been well-intentioned and Shiro had taken it in with a smile, before making sure to avoid that person for a while.

Constantly being occupied has helped him deal, helped him cope. It's why he likes to play mechanic with whoever wants to drop their vehicle off on his front step. It's given him something to do when he's alone with his thoughts for too long. He feels like he's treading through sludge sometimes, ball and chain around his ankle reminding him that for a long time, he didn’t remember.

Shiro doesn’t think he’s fully right on his feet, doesn’t think that’s a thing that’ll be happening for at least a few more years, but he’s getting there. He’s unique in some ways, and it’s isolating when there’s not really a large pool of people with the specific shared experience to pick from. But Shiro’s making do.

There’s a soft rumble in the distance, and Shiro squints as he looks up. He uses his hand to shield his eyes from the sun and to better see the rapidly-approaching vehicle in the distance. The sun glaring off the metal’s not doing Shiro any favours, but it’s easy for him to make out the sleek black and red body of a motorcycle roaring up the driveway.

Shiro closes the hood of his truck and throws his towel on top of it as the bike pulls into his vicinity. It kicks up clouds of dust on the unpaved road before it makes it onto the asphalt in front of the garage, screeching to a halt ten feet away from where Shiro’s standing. The motorcyclist revs once, twice, three times.

“Can I help you?” Shiro calls out, approaching the motorcycle as the engine’s killed and the driver kicks out the stand.

“Maybe,” comes the reply as gloved hands pull off a helmet, revealing a shock of black hair plastered against a damp forehead. The helmet is tossed towards Shiro, and he catches it with ease and whistles as his eyes graze over the curves of the bike.

“Nice ride,” Shiro says, and Keith grins as he slides off the seat. He lopes towards Shiro, all leather and dust and amused looks and Shiro easily grabs him midway into a hug. Keith smells like sweat and the shop he’s undoubtedly spent all morning in, fawning over his new motorcycle.

Shiro knows he’s no better, having spent the hotter part of the morning with his truck, but he wrinkles his nose anyways when Keith slings an arm across Shiro's shoulders. Keith rolls his eyes and lets go, walking away before Shiro can return his helmet.

“She’s alright,” Keith says airly, like he hasn’t been spending the better part of the month deciding between KTMs and Ducatis. “Hey, don’t touch.”

“What?” Shiro raises his eyebrows from where he’s sliding his hand over the mudguard, using the rag in his back pocket to brush off some of the dead bugs. He wipes his hands on his jeans, and smiles sweetly at Keith. “Scared she’ll leave you for someone with more experience?”

Keith really rolls his eyes this time and circles the bike till he gets to Shiro, stalking towards him with intent. He grabs the helmet from Shiro’s hands and Shiro thinks that’s that, but Keith dangles it off one of the handles of the bike before turning back to him. Shiro gets a glimpse of the freckles smattered across Keith’s face when he pauses in front of him, before Keith’s pushing up into a kiss, sliding his hands into Shiro’s back pockets.

Shiro smiles into it and takes a slightly chapped bottom lip between his teeth, nipping playfully when Keith tries to press his tongue forward.

“I can still taste the barbecue sauce,” Shiro says when Keith pulls back, looking pointedly put-out. It’s not actually an issue, but messing a little with Keith is one of life’s greater pleasures. Shiro leans in for another kiss, but Keith’s already moving away from him with a playful huff. He flicks Shiro’s nose instead and grabs his helmet off his bike.

“You stink too, old man,” Keith says, walking away backwards from Shiro, heading towards the house. He jabs his helmet in Shiro’s direction as he speaks. “I’d consider showering before anyone else gets here.”

Shiro looks contemplative at this, and Keith mutters something about Shiro being lucky he’s got a pretty face before he pivots on his heel and makes his way to their front door. Shiro catches the glint of the chain around Keith’s neck, and it makes him feel the weight of the one that sits against his chest.

Shiro’s lost count of how many times he’s felt lucky; at this point, he thinks it might just be a perpetual feeling.

 

* * *

 

 

Shiro peels off his dirty shirt and jeans, dumping them on the ground beside where Keith’s clothes lie. There’s still some condensation left on the mirror; Shiro took long enough in coming in that Keith had finished by the time he made it to the shower. He wipes at it, sees his face, and feels nothing.

There’s only two mirrors in the small ranch house they live in. One in the bathroom, and one in the front lobby to throw off their more observant guests. For the first few weeks after the event at the Galra facility, Shiro had to cover all mirrors lest he get a look  at himself while he was fully piecing together who he was.

For the first few weeks after the Galra facility, Shiro had felt _everything_ when he saw his face.  While his brain was trying to parse through the million moving images that played against his eyelids every time he closed them, it kept forgetting what he was supposed to look like. Shiro knew that he was to have knitted skin across his face, a shock of white hair creeping up, a prosthetic arm. He had seen himself in a mirror enough after he had escaped the Galra the first time.

Yet often, he would catch a clear reflection himself occasionally, and be thrown into a panic when a fresh faced, black haired and scar free young pilot didn’t stare back.

It was to be expected, he had been told. There's no way to quantify the amount of data his brain had been whacked with before waking up to mortal peril. He was a stranger to himself for the longest time before his brain had decided that whatever looked back at him _was_ him. It was a side effect that came with him trying to stitch together what his actual reality was.

It’s been a little over a year and a half since then and Shiro can look at himself for more than a brief second and not get jolted by what he sees in return.  He’s gotten used to his hair having gone mostly white, has gotten used to the scars that pepper his body, has gotten used to the fact that his body had been honed towards a special type of brutality in a lasting way.

Shiro looks at his shoulders, turning to see if the redness of his skin is as bad as thinks it is. It’s not, and he’s glad because he’s not going to hear the end of it if he gets a sunburn.

The water in the shower runs lukewarm at best, but it soothes Shiro’s skin as he steps in. He washes his hair first, the mint-and-nutmeg smell of his and Keith’s shared shampoo doing more to relax him than the spray of the shower. He works on soaping off all the grease and grime and heat from the morning, working out as many knots in his neck and shoulder as he can. His body always feels like cardboard after the more detailed and intrusive nightmares, and today is no different.

Shiro thinks about asking Keith to help him work out some of the harder to reach muscles between his shoulder blade, feels the ghost of Keith’s hands on him already. He thinks about the last time he asked Keith, thinks about how Keith had draped himself over Shiro’s back after and it makes something warm pool low inside of his gut. Shiro scrubs at his own skin with intent, working off all the dirt he can reach.

Intimacy had been the last part to come back in their relationship, but it had come back with a full fledged hunger when it did. It had taken a lot of tentative touches and a lot more tentative talking before they fell back into their oldest comfort. While it didn’t have as much importance to Shiro as everything else had, the privilege of being able to map Keith’s body has been something Shiro has been more than happy to get back.

They’ve both had a lot on their plate lately, and have fallen to bed exhausted every night for the past week. They won’t have time tonight either. He counts the days since he’s had Keith between his hands and Shiro realizes that it’s been too many. He’ll never discount the luxury of being able to fall asleep next to the man he loves, but Shiro enjoys being able to make him feel good.

By the time Shiro is turning off the tap and stepping out, his mind’s started to travel on a different track completely. He pulls on a fresh pair of jeans, tugging it up over his still-damp skin. He runs the towel over his hair a few times before pushing back his slick bangs and wiping at his neck. Feeling extremely optimistic, he leaves his shirt and his chain on the counter.

Shiro hears rustling in the kitchen, and finds his focus as he crosses the small hall into the open living area. Keith’s at the fridge, in his boxers and a loose shirt, humming something off-key as he stares at their healthy beer collection. By the time he pulls out a bottle of India pale ale, Shiro catches up to him and wraps his arms around Keith’s waist.

He leans in to kiss the nape of his neck, pushing aside the low ponytail Keith’s tied his hair in. Keith just grunts in response, stepping back and propping the lid against the counter. He slides his palm over the cap but before he can hit it and pop it open, Shiro grabs his wrist.

“Later?” he asks, setting his chin on Keith’s shoulder. Keith turns his head and leans over a slightly to give Shiro an amused look.

“Later?” Keith repeats, raising his eyebrows. “Why?”

But he’s already setting down the bottle and turning in Shiro’s arms before Shiro can give him an answer. Bright sunlight filters in from the window above the sink, turning Keith’s eyes into an otherworldly colour. He’s close enough to see the flecks of gold that swirl through Keith’s irises. Keith will see the same in Shiro’s eyes; the type of quintessence coursing through them will take a few more years to fully flush out, according to Allura’s calculations.

It had scared the two of them at first, too reminiscent of Honerva’s alien-bright eyes. She had used herself as a test subject and pumped herself full of a new version of quintessence that would heal people faster and raise them back from the dead, even if they had been in decay for months, even if they had passed in their sleep from a freak brain aneurysm. Shiro and Keith had both been scared that they would have a dependency like her, it’d drop them into a coma like her, but it had turned out that it required an inhuman amount to match what she had been taking.

Allura had tackled her before she could run back into the burning building, and Honerva would have taken her out if Hunk wasn’t following close behind to help. A few days after she had been captured, Honerva had gone into a sharp withdrawal that had seen her clawing the walls and screaming and ripping a door clean off its hinges.

She had been moved to a higher security facility that had just barely been able to contain her, and once her body had detoxified from the overwhelming amount of potent chemicals she had ingested, she fell into a catatonic state. Honerva’s awake now, pointedly refusing to talk, but she’s at the fraction of the unearthly strength she had had.

Shiro feels bitter about it sometimes, blames it for turning his life upside down. It’s easy to pin his troubles on a single substance, whose formula has entered a vault so deep it might as well be buried within the core of the Earth. But for as much destruction as quintessence brought into their lives, it’s also ensured that they’ve had one to live.

The events at the Galra facility after he woke up had run concurrently with a lifetime worth of memories crashing down on him like a giant wave. So much had happened, but what Shiro remembers most vividly is the chorus of _save him save him save him_ that coursed through his veins the moment he saw Zarkon lifting Keith up into the air. By some grace, he managed to turn his dead prosthetic back on. By the same grace, he had managed to keep his hand steady when he quickly injected Keith with the quintessence he had pocketed in the lab.

Shiro had felt like his brain was being whipped around in a blender the entire time, but focus came in the form of needing to keep Keith alive no matter what. Shiro doesn’t remember anything from the few moments he was awake after he was dropped out of his dream state the first time. Anything except for being drawn to Keith, despite not knowing who he was. It had been the same thing that he had felt when he picked Keith up on the side of the road. It’s a testament to how deeply engraved Keith is in Shiro’s psyche, and it’s something that’s transcended his mind being put through the wringer.

“Shiro?” Keith’s voice brings him back to the present, and Shiro looks down at Keith for a moment. He sees Keith’s freckles again, suddenly remembers the same face as pale and gaunt as Keith was held in the ICU, with no one knowing why the quintessence was working weaker than it had in others. Shiro shakes his head, refocuses.

Shiro wastes no more time in closing the distance, pressing Keith against the counter as he kisses him slow and languid. He likes to take his time with Keith when he can— out of all the ways they keep themselves occupied, this has to be one of his favourites. It grounds him and keeps him present. Keith says it does the same for him, says it makes him calm.

Keith trails his hands down Shiro's sides, skimming bare skin with warm, calloused palms. Keith digs his thumbs into the waistband of Shiro's jeans and opens up when Shiro presses his tongue against the seam of his mouth. Shiro slides his own hands down to Keith's thighs and without missing a beat, he hoists Keith up onto the counter. Keith’s knees knock against his sides as Shiro continues kissing upwards, running a hand underneath the soft worn shirt.

They kiss like that for a while, Keith’s arms lazily slung around Shiro’s shoulders. He feels the ridges of Keith’s spine, the warmth of his skin and the raised surface of his scars. He remembers belatedly he was going to ask Keith to work some of the tension out of his back, but this works more wonders. The beer sits forgotten beside them, and Shiro breaks off the kiss in favour of biting across Keith’s jaw. He plucks at the hemline of Keith’s shirt and pushes up, but Keith grabs his wrists to still him.

“Not here,” Keith says, pulling Shiro’s hands off of him. “You know they’ll be able to tell and they won’t shut up about it.”

“It’s our house,” Shiro half-heartedly grumbles, but his heart ticks faster in anticipation as Keith slides off the counter. He doesn’t grab Shiro; he side steps him and grabs the beer. He holds it up against the counter and smacks the lid, popping it open. He turns on Shiro with an amused look as he takes a swig, and it takes one wink from Keith for Shiro to pull the beer from his hands. Keith gives a fake protest that dissolves into laughter as Shiro bends down to grab his legs and haul him over a shoulder.

By the time Shiro’s thrown him onto the California king bed that takes up most of their small bedroom, he’s forgotten about any muscle soreness. Still, when Keith shoots him an anticipating look from where he’s sprawled on top of the sheets, Shiro sits back on his haunches and looks contemplatively at him.

“My shoulders are stiff,” Shiro says matter-of-factly, looking down at Keith. “I was hoping you’d massage it out.”

Keith gives him a flat look and shifts a leg so that he can dig his heel into Shiro’s sternum. Shiro over-exaggerates how much it hurts and falls backwards, and Keith’s crawling on top of him before he can say anything. Not like he has anything left to say, especially after Keith starts to trail wet kisses from his navel up towards his chest. By the time Keith’s made it to his neck, Shiro brings up one of his thighs to wedge it between Keith’s legs. Keith rocks back on it, hanging onto the crook of Shiro’s neck by his teeth and sucking in a dark mark.

When he sits back up and looks at Shiro, mouth kiss bitten and hair mussed, Shiro’s heart stutters at the sight. Keith’s always looked like a wild thing, always stood in a stark type of handsomeness that’s hard to tame and find elsewhere. It’s encompassing and breath-taking and Shiro can’t imagine falling for anyone else, regardless of how intact his memories are.

This time Keith takes the initiative and pulls his shirt off himself, throwing it off to the side before he leans back down. His chain still hangs around his neck, tags and ring glinting in the light that basks their room. Shiro helps him with his boxers and soon, Keith’s fully naked against him and rolling his hips.

Shiro slides his hands over the junctions of Keith’s thighs and Keith shudders as Shiro takes over and drags Keith against his stomach. Keith pants into Shiro’s as he creates a wet mess between them, and Shiro feels almost dizzy with the amount of want that strikes him.

Everything around them melts away as Shiro flips them over and pushes Keith’s legs apart, slotting himself in between them. He grows hungrier with each kiss and barely notices Keith popping open the button of his jeans and tugging them down.

They’ve got a laundry list of things left to do today, from cleaning up the house to seeing if the barbecue pawned off to them last week actually works. Shiro still has to fix the rear left blinker for the truck before it gets picked up, and he’s thinking about none of this as he opens Keith up on slicked fingers and murmurs into his ear. They’ve earned being able to forget their responsibilities in favour for each other, and Shiro would rather be in bed with his husband than be rewiring truck lights.

It’s been a couple of weeks since they’ve done more than use their hands or mouths on each other, so Shiro goes slow and takes his time when he pushes and sinks into the heat. Keith’s back is planted in the mattress while Shiro holds his lower half in his lap, and his eyes are closed as he takes Shiro in. Shiro rocks gently in till he’s fully seated and Keith’s squirming on him, scratching dull nails against Shiro’s biceps.

Shiro likes Keith like this, likes to see every expression he makes as Shiro moves in him slowly and deliberately. It melts from adjusting to pleased to hungering for more, and Shiro’s more than happy to acquiesce to the last. Keith gets demanding fast, and Shiro is nothing if not there to please. Keith tries to flip them, but Shiro pins his wrists above his head and moves slow and deep in Keith as he kisses him.

“Are you planning to be here forever?” Keith says, all breathless and fake exasperation as a rich pink flush crawls across his chest. “We have other things to do today.”

He is, and he doesn’t care. Shiro doesn’t bother voicing any of this, instead sliding his hand under Keith’s back and hauling him up as Shiro sits back onto his knees. Instantly, Keith’s grasping his shoulders and wrapping his legs around his waist as Shiro holds him up and thrusts up into him.

“Better?” Shiro grunts out as Keith drapes over him and tries to move in tandem with him. Keith’s answering groan is enough to tell him what he needs, and Shiro loves the way it tilts up when he snaps his hips up harder into Keith. Shiro feels nonsensical and tells Keith he loves him, over and over and over again as Keith digs red marks into his skin. He can feel the metal of the tags and sharp jut of the ring hanging around Keith’s neck as he presses his chest against Shiro’s, determined to get as close as possible.

Shiro feels himself approach his crest and digs his face into the crook of Keith’s neck. He inhales sharply, pushes harder to feel Keith tremble against him, and thanks whoever is writing his fate for keeping Keith in it. It’s gratitude that he’s felt an infinite amount of times, gratitude he doesn’t think will ever fade away because their love has survived so much.

“Shiro— _Shiro_ ,” Keith’s moaning, and Shiro snakes a hand between them, pushing away Keith’s own.

“Let me,” he half says, half-gasps before capturing Keith in another kiss. It’s wet and filthy and there's nothing Shiro wants to do more in his life than take care of Keith and take him apart. Shiro’s thighs strain with the effort as he puts all his energy into fucking up into Keith and Keith makes his best effort to cling on. His legs shake from where they're wrapped around Shiro and they start fall, barely able to hold on. Shiro comes first and rides it out, jerking Keith off till he’s joined him with a silent cry.

They take a moment to catch their breath before Shiro starts lifting Keith off of him, slow and gentle. Once he’s slid out, he slumps them forward onto the bed, flattening himself on top of Keith. They’re overheated and sticky, but Shiro holds his ground when Keith tries to shove him off.

“Let’s stay like this?” Shiro says tentatively, leaning down to peck the tip of Keith’s nose. Keith looks at him, unimpressed so Shiro cups his face and runs a thumb over the scar there to try and make his case. He also grabs Keith’s discarded shirt and swipes it in between them, lazily cleaning up the mess, and finds Keith’s a lot more amenable.

This time it’s Keith that reaches up to kiss Shiro, all languid and sweet. Shiro sweeps a hand up his chest, intending to make it to his jaw, but he finds Keith’s chain and rests there instead. He feels the familiar weathered material of his wedding ring, the tags that Keith’s insisted on keeping after all this time, and it grounds Shiro more than anything else can even dream of doing.

He likes being occupied, likes to keep himself busy, but it’s only around Keith that Shiro feels like he can truly let go and be left with his thoughts. It doesn’t feel lonely or isolating when he’s with Keith. It might be their shared experience, might be their love, might be the fact that even when he didn’t remember Keith, Shiro had sought him out like a missle.

They’ve got things to do, but it stops mattering as Keith kicks off the dirty sheets. They’re not in a rush anyways. They have a lot more time than they’ve ever had before.

 

* * *

 

Keith and Shiro end up having to scramble an hour before their guests come. They spent the entire afternoon lazing around in bed and enjoying each other’s company, so Shiro’s not too pressed. Nor does he consider it time wasted, no matter how many times he tells Keith that they need to hurry up. Despite having moved from the kitchen, Shiro still gives the counter a good wipe-down, knowing how their friends get.

By the time a familiar yellow pick-up is rolling up the driveway, the early evening sun’s started to drop in the distance, colouring the sky a lush pink and orange. Keith’s managed to kick the grill into action on their front yard and Shiro throws on some of the meat they’ve been marinating since the night before.

“That smells good,” Pidge says, the first one to hop out of the car. She gives Keith a one-armed hug before handing off a six pack to him. Hunk’s close on her tail, hauling out two boxes of twenty fours, and stacks them on top of the six-pack Keith’s holding.

“I told you guys that we have beer here,” Keith tells him in lieu of a greeting, and Hunk thumps his back and tells him to make sure he drops them in ice soon.

“That smells passable,” Hunk says, approaching Shiro as Shiro pokes at a steak. His voice is grave, and Shiro tries to reply with an equally serious tone.

“Better be,” Shiro replies, slowly turning the meat over. The juices sizzle, and it _does_ smell good. “Your recipe.”

Allura and Coran follow shortly after, bringing a potato salad and a giant rice cooker filled to the brim. Shiro distinctly remembers both him and Keith letting everyone know that they’d take care of dinner completely, and is amused at how little faith their friends have in their cooking skills. Charring two meals in a row apparently gives one a reputation.

Keith takes over at the grill while Shiro takes the rice into the kitchen, Allura trailing behind him. Allura and Coran have also brought a bottle of red, though they’ve specified that it’s a gift and not something for Lance and Hunk to snatch later, empty, and sing into.

“How’s your arm doing?” Allura asks when Shiro offers her a glass of water. “Everything still in order?”

Shiro wiggles the fingers of his prosthetic in her direction before shooting her a thumbs up, and she grins.

“Are you going to come in next week then?” She asks, and Shiro nods. He had to miss the last appointment they had at the lab, but Allura never lets any of her colleagues chide him for it. Pidge gets away with it because she’s Pidge, and because every time Shiro can’t work up the nerve to take one of the trucks into the city, she straps a kit to the back of her Harley and comes to him.

His old arm had brought him a lot of pain. It had been another one of the experiments the Galra had run on him, and after the melee at the facility, after they had all been shepherded to a hospital, Pidge had snuck out of her room and into Shiro’s. She had to turn off his arm, she said. It would kill him otherwise.

It turned out that she _had_ been correct about it preventing him from getting his memories back. Shiro had managed to fight it when he turned it back on to save Keith, had managed to fight it while he injected Keith with quintessence. But as soon as he had accomplished that, as soon as someone had crowded him and pulled him away from his husband, Shiro had started to go into full shutdown mode. Pidge had had to charge over from where she blockading escaping Galra scientists and had to power down his arm before it fried his brain.

The arm was a fantastical piece of technology, on par with bringing back the dead. It looked synthetic, worked like a superpower, but had felt human. Pidge got her father to force the doctors into removing the arm completely, and Shiro had put all his faith in her and Allura when they said they’d be able to make him something that wouldn’t try to send his body into failure. But deep inside Shiro hadn’t expected to ever have anything there again, had accepted as his reality shortly after the surgery, and had spent a few months getting used to doing everything with his left hand.

It wasn’t as hard a task as though, but Shiro knows it was because of muscle memory from when he lost his flesh-and-blood arm. He hadn’t lost it in one of the bloody fights he had been forced to participate in, hadn’t lost it trying to claw his way out of the Galra clutches. He had lost it because a scientist had caught Honerva’s eye. That’s what he’s been told at least. Some memories apparently are too lurid to be dug up, even with Sam Holt guiding him through his own head.

Shiro only remembers a fraction of the time he spent in captivity. He remembers a few fights, he remembers Ulaz helping him through a secret exit in the dead of the night and telling him to head East. He remembers Sam Holt sneaking him into labs to tinker on his brain and make sure that the Galra didn’t damage it irrevocably. Not any more than they already had.

The rest of it has been told to him in a detached manner through records and documents and sitting in on legal proceedings as the rest of the state and country tried to parse through the going-ons in a string of government funded labs in California. The Blades brought Zethrid forward; turns out, she had spearheaded some of the more brutal projects, side by side with Sendak, who had withered with the facility.

From the few fights he remembers, Shiro’s stomach churns. He also starkly remembers every moment from picking up Keith to sticking in the needle and hoping his heart didn’t stop before the quintessence took. That is enough to keep him up at night. Shiro remembers four nights before he first escaped from the Galra, asking Sam Holt if there was any way to forget. He knew what that kind of trauma did to men, was scared of what it’d do to him.

It’s for the better, maybe. It’s been a hard enough fight to work through the pain that he does remember. Shiro tells himself he’s made the right choice.

“I’ll pencil you in,” Allura winks at him, before taking the glass from his hands. She drains it before moving to their fridge and liberating two bottles of Guiness from it. “Pidge wants to fine tune the reaction time in your little finger.”

The arm Allura and Pidge have built for him has been nothing short of amazing. It’s a little bigger, and its touch sensors are not as sharp as they had been on his old prosthetic, but it’s also not trying to kill him when it’s on. He’s forever in awe of their combined brilliance, and sees the arm as a symbol of the bond he has with the people who fought tooth and nail to rescue him. The prosthetic has gained some notoriety as well, and a stack of journals with articles about it sit in one of their television racks. He hasn’t read any of them, doesn’t plan to, but they’re there just in case he does.

That, and everything else that came when the Blades had gone public with the information on the Galra, has been one of the main reasons he and Keith have retreated to a twenty acre farm in San Diego county. It’s easy this way, to work on cars and trucks and the house and go hiking and think about getting horses and dogs without journalists knocking down his door. It’s been an easier way for the two of them to figure out how they’re going to reintegrate into civilian society as well.

“Bring Keith,” Allura calls out as she heads back outside. “It’ll be good for him to be somewhere that’s got more than three streets.”

“Yes ma’am,” Shiro says, following out after her with a mini cooler. Lance has reached as well, and is currently standing by the barbecue with Coran. By the way Keith’s forehead’s going red, Shiro can tell that they’re unloading what they think is a healthy dose of constructive criticism. Keith aggressively stabs the meat with a long fork, and Shiro decides that he needs to go interject.

“Hey guys, heads up,” Shiro says loudly, before tossing a can of beer towards Lance. He catches it and, Keith forgotten, frowns when he looks down at it.

“Is this _Canadian_?” he says, disgust evident in his voice and starts stomping with purpose towards the table to switch it out.

“I was telling Keith that this was an excellent spread,” Coran says as Shiro comes up beside them and slides an arm around Keith’s waist. It’s probably not what he was telling Keith, but Coran beams at them and claps them both on the back. “I’m proud of you boys.”

He’s said it a million times, and Shiro’s sure he’s going to say it a million more. Having come out with no injuries, Coran’s taken it upon himself to become the full-fledged father figure of the group. He already was a father for Allura, but he’s extended that love and warmth to everyone and Shiro would be lying if it hadn’t moved worlds for them.

The Galra had kept Alfor’s body for a few years after he had gone “missing” and had subsequently disposed of it when they were done. Shiro doesn’t know the details about it, hadn’t read or asked for those reports, but knows Allura had locked herself up in a hotel for a week, refusing to talk to anyone. Coran and Lance had to eventually pry her out, and Coran had been the one to take her on a road trip up till Washington state, up till her head had cleared out and she had pulled herself out of her sadness. She’s approaching her father’s death anniversary soon, and this time Coran and Lance are taking her out east.

Coran’s also the one who found the ranch for Shiro and Keith when they had gotten sick of the apartment they had first been moved into by the Garrison when they had gotten discharged from the hospital. Coran, with Pidge, also drew enough public attention the them that the Garrison couldn’t just sweep them under the rug.

The Garrison as a whole has distanced itself from the people who had been attached to the Galra, and has joined in on the outrage. And a majority people within there _didn’t_ know what projects some of the higher-ups were funneling money towards. Yet Shiro and Keith and all the others still harboured distrust and anger towards the institution; after all, it was one of the reasons that they had so easily had their lives upturned.

They had almost rejected the tidy sum of money that they had been offered as compensation. But in the end, it had been good to have the money to run away to the country and distance themselves as much as they possibly could.  It still feels wrong some days, but it’s low on the hierarchy of emotional problems they still battle.

The apartment they had gotten had been too claustrophobic, too much like a motel room, too much like it was closing in on them.  The ranch house they’re in is only slightly bigger, but it’s got a lot of land around it and a lot of things that need fixing to keep them busy.  It’s also easier for them to host dinners like these, when they’re feeling sociable enough.

Shiro should leave Keith to go get the rice and more drinks from inside the house. They’ve got a shepherd’s pie sitting in the oven too, but he’s enjoying standing in front of the heat of the barbecue, attached to Keith as the evening wind gently gusts pasts them.

The sun’s fully set but the sky hasn’t gone completely lost all it’s light yet and Shiro can hear a few crickets hissing in the distance. He feels comfortable here, by Keith’s side in the blue-dark, gently arguing about how much longer they need to cook the steak for in between pressing his lips against Keith’s shoulder. He’s wearing one of Shiro’s shirts now, and Shiro’s reminded of an instance from before captivity, when they had tried to make dinner together for Shiro’s visiting grandfather.

Remembering their love from before had been one of the only pleasant things to come out of the entire ordeal. Shiro was barraged with his life all over again, but remembering that he had fallen in love with his best friend and had been lucky enough to be married to him is something he doesn’t mind experiencing over and over again.

Once the meat’s passable, Shiro helps Keith stack it all onto one plate and carries it over to their outdoor dining table. Their friends descend on it like a pack of hungry dogs before Shiro can even announce that it’s done. He sees that someone’s already put out the salad and poured the rice into a giant plastic bowl. The shepherd pie’s already been sliced into, but everyone looks away when Shiro asks who.

Keith turns on a camping lamp and sets it down over their fire pit, air too dry for a real bonfire, and their friends settle around on lawn chairs, talking louder as the pile of empty cans grow. Everyone is pleasantly surprised at how good the food’s turned out and Shiro’s not quite sure whether or not they should feel offended, especially with how often it’s brought up.

They try to do this once a month at the least. It’s healthy for everyone involved— they’ve all had the similar shared experience. Amongst the media flurry and the hearings and the interrogations and requests of silence handed down by very powerful officials, it’s good for them to have a reminder that they always have each other. These people put their neck on the line for Shiro, and the least he can do is make them a meal.

“I brought my guitar,” Lance happily announces to the group, and everyone lets out a simultaneous groan. He takes it as encouragement and retrieves it from his car, ignoring all verbal threats issued. Shiro pulls back the tab for another can of what’s supposedly a local craft, and raises it in a toast to Lance as he starts on a poor off-key rendition of a country song.

“This song is exceptionally ugly,” Keith informs him after he’s finished, and Lance grins.

“Thanks,” he replies sweetly. “I sang it especially for you.”

Keith gives him the finger before settling back into his own lawn chair, and sticking his hand out so it falls into Shiro’s lap. Shiro takes it and twines his fingers, running his thumb over the ring on Keith’s finger. Shiro’s wearing his as well; they both like to wear the rings in front of company, and keep it safe and protected on a chain at other times. He lifts Keith’s knuckles so that he can brush his lips over rough skin, and smiles against Keith’s hand as Keith continues to rag on Lance’s singing.

Eventually Lance issues a challenge to Keith, telling him to put his money where his mouth is. Keith gets up, brushes the dust off his jeans and walks over to Lance. Lance holds out his guitar, and Keith grabs it. He passes it off to Hunk with a small salute, before flicking Lance in the side of the head and walking back towards the house. Before Lance can protest, Keith’s disappeared into the dark and Hunk’s started to strum the opening chords to a raunchy pop song. Shiro listens in for a few bars, joins in for the chorus, and kills the rest of his beer before he too is sliding out of his chair and going on the hunt for Keith.

Keith’s not in the house, nor is he in their garage-turned-workshop. He’s not hanging around underneath their car port either, and Shiro thinks he might have an idea where Keith’s gone.

There’s an old truck that came with their property, that sits three hundred yards down the hill behind their house. Keith keeps telling Shiro that he’s going to make it functional one day, but so far it’s just laid with two flat tires in their backyard. Shiro can see the white and red of Keith’s sneakers dangling off the bed of the truck, and makes his way over.

“The party’s back there,” he calls out, and Keith makes a lazy sound in return. Shiro rounds the truck and sees Keith sprawled over the blanket they laid down a couple of weeks ago, one arm slung over his face.

“Star-gazing,” Keith says, and Shiro circles one of Keith’s ankles with his hand. He tugs and Keith makes a sound of protest, kicking back, and Shiro laughs.

“Come on,” Shiro says, tugging again playfully. “You’re being a bad host.”

“You should follow my example,” Keith says, lifting his head up so that he can look at Shiro. He pats the space beside him, and that’s all the incentive and direction Shiro needs to clamber in beside him. There’s space for both of them to spread out, but Shiro opts to pull Keith close and let Keith pillow his head on Shiro’s chest. Shiro presses his nose into Keith’s hair, smells the barbecue and his shampoo and closes his eyes.

“I love you,” he mouths against Keith’s scalp, and Keith lets out a pleased hum and tucks himself closer against Shiro. The two of them stare up into the ink-black sky, stars yawning bright and expansive around them. Celestial clouds dust the moonless night, and Shiro wonders what would have happened if he hadn’t been kidnapped, if he had finished his test pilot training and headed where he and Keith both wanted to go.

Shiro traces Perseus and Cassiopeia with his eyes, watching as the stars twinkle. He doesn’t find himself dwelling on the what-ifs as much as he thought he would. He’s got Keith beside him, safe and healthy and alive. For some time he thought that he wouldn’t be able to get that; the quintessence he injected had kept Keith alive, but barely. There was a brief period of time where Keith’s life had been balancing on a thread— the quintessence was enough to keep him alive, but his body needed to fight too.

Miraculously, the quintessence started taking better after the one week mark post-incident. The doctor’s chalked it up to unique physiology, Allura said the goodness of Keith’s heart helped him heal, and Shiro pretends that he didn’t see Matthew Holt dress up as a security guard and patrol the hospital halls, peering into each room till he found Keith. Matt, Shiro, and Keith also pretend that Matt hadn’t quietly pocketed the quintessence Shiro had taken from the lab during the chaos and later administered it in secret while Shiro and Lance kept a cautious eye out for orderlies.

It was still a long road to recovery after, both physically and mentally. But Shiro’s glad that he didn’t lose his husband as soon as he remembered him. They’re still unsure why it took more quintessence to heal Keith than it had to heal Shiro. Physiology maybe. Probably. It could be something in his blood, because Keith is unlike anyone else Shiro knows. Shiro’s thankful that he’s got Keith beside him, their friends still singing loudly in the distance as they lie on the bed of a rusted robin-blue truck and stargaze.

He’s glad that Keith looked for him too. Shiro thinks about  life circling California, Arizona and Nevada for the rest of his life, thinking he has to head out East. He thinks of the fake, fragmented reality that had been planted in him so that he could escape. Of how the house for his memories resembled the shack he and Keith used to sneak away to, filled with hope that Keith was looking for him. Often, Shiro dwells on how fast he had been drawn to Keith. And it makes sense.

Keith had asked him when they were on the mend, what Shiro would be most comfortable with. Shiro had been confused at the question before he had realized that Keith was trying to see if Shiro wanted to try and rebuild from square one.

Shiro had shook his head and told Keith that they didn’t need to hit restart on their relationship, that they didn’t need to take it slow and pretend that Shiro needed to adjust and learn how to love Keith again. It’s a hymn ingrained in him that he’ll never forget. Fate had dealt Shiro the shittiest of cards, but has made it up to him in the form of the man that he loves, a man who loves him back with the same force and fury of an exploding star.

The dust hasn’t fully settled around them. Probably won’t for years. But Shiro has a roof and food and friends and a husband who he loves in ways that surpasses whatever turmoil they were thrown into.

“You’re thinking loudly,” Keith comments drowsily from where he’s slowly drifting off. “You’ve been doing it all evening.”

“It's one of those days,” Shiro says softly and lets out a small _oof_ when Keith shifts and rolls on top of him, blocking out his view of the stars. It’s too dark to see the details of Keith’s face, but Shiro can make out the glimmer of his eyes. With no pre-amble, Shiro leans up to peck Keith on the lips before he says “I was thinking about you.”

“Yeah?” Shiro hears more than sees Keith’s smile, and he circles an arm around Keith.

“Yeah,” he replies, and pulls Keith into a proper kiss this time.

“I was thinking about how I love you,” Shiro says against Keith’s lips, and Keith makes a questioning sound. “About how I loved you even when I didn’t know you.”

“You knew me for two weeks,” Keith says, like he always says when this topic comes up. Shiro’s reply stays the same too.

“That was more than enough for me,” he says, carding his fingers through Keith’s hair. Because it was. He had been tentative when he didn’t have his memory, but now that Shiro’s clumsily stitched his memories together, he knows what he felt was something that even the devils themselves were not able to rip from him. It lived within him, hidden but there, forgotten for safety but very much alive.

“You’re too easy,” Keith replies, but Shiro can tell there’s more gratitude than heat and teasing. The kiss is gentle and slow while it lasts, and just this side of chilly as the night wind picks up.

Shiro rubs small circles into Keith’s scalp, and Keith makes a pleased sound as he rests his head down on Shiro’s chest again. Shiro continues to massage his scalp, and enjoys the weight of Keith against him.

They have maybe five more minutes before one of their braver friends come looking for them, and Shiro intends to use every second of it. Shiro doesn’t know how he’s going to ever repay Keith; Keith tells him that Shiro living is enough for him, but Shiro wants to bottle up the universe and give it to Keith, a symbol of at least a fraction of the love that he has for him.

“I’ll love you through anything,” Shiro says quietly, more towards the sky than to Keith. He presses a kiss to the top of Keith’s head, and Keith shifts again, moving up so that he can bracket Shiro’s head with his hands.

“What’s gotten into you?” Keith murmurs, but it’s not a real question. Shiro knows it, recognizes it as Keith’s way to deflect till he can parse through what he’s feeling. He’s more reticent with his words than Shiro is, but when he uses them—

“I’m lucky to have your love,” Keith says, and Shiro can feel his warm breath ghost over his face. “And I love you too.”

“Always,” Shiro replies, and Keith echoes him.

“Always,” Keith says, pushing Shiro’s bangs off of his face. “Always.”

Shiro’s flooded with the overwhelming warmth that comes with having Keith in his arms despite it all. It makes him feel young, makes him feel light, makes him think that the universe that stretches above them is easily within their reach no matter what hellish creature’s tried to drag them down.

Keith leans down to kiss him, and Shiro holds on tight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for joining me with this fic! I had a blast writing it, it was a very different experience but a very fun one. Thank you for everyone who supported it along the way, I really appreciate each and every one of you!
> 
> Shout outs are in order to [jojohir](arahir.tumblr.com) and [liasucc](otasucc.tumblr.com) for constantly cheerleading me on with this fic ever since last year when I dumped the idea in our GC and also to [kaii](akaiikowrites.tumblr.com) for helping my brain unstick at least ten million times during the process of writing this and also holding my hand while I screamed into the void. 
> 
> It baffles my tiny brain that there are fanworks for this fic and I’m extremely, extremely grateful for them. I’ve cleaned up my author’s notes but know that I am fucking SCREAMING at the fact that people have made stuff for this fic and it’s warmed my heart a thousand times over. Please go give them some love, they’re super deserving of it!!
> 
> [csealia](csealia.tumblr.com) has drawn some extremely lovely art for this fic [here ](https://csealia.tumblr.com/post/179150327956/um-im-obsessed-with-phaltu-s-fic-laws-of-the) and [ here](https://csealia.tumblr.com/post/179974231996/click-for-better-quality-i-have-been)!! 
> 
> [yukinayee](yukinayee.tumblr.com) has drawn some stunning work for [ chapter 5](https://twitter.com/_yukinayee/status/1040229040529977346) and [ chapter 9](https://twitter.com/_yukinayee/status/1059249476634734592) !!
> 
> [rosie-starlabs](rosie-starlabs.tumblr.com) has made some beautiful work for this fic as well that you can find here and [here](https://rosie-starlabs.tumblr.com/post/177114794941/the-time-was-short-and-their-patience-was-shorter)!!
> 
> And listen to this [ absolutely fucking stellar sound clip](http://kcgane.tumblr.com/post/175640276021/hq-audio-for-phaltus-incredible-laws-of-the) miss sunny [kcgane](kcgane.tumblr.com) made for this fic!! 
> 
> Please also check out [ this amazing artwork ](http://slouph.tumblr.com/post/175400165906/laws-of-the-beast-by-tagteammemore-a) done by [slouph](slouph.tumblr.com) (and a special thank you to [jojo](http://arahir.tumblr.com) \+ [lia](http://otasucc.tumblr.com) for comissioning this as a gift ily guys beyond words ;___; )
> 
> And because I honestly have better friends than I deserve, please also check out the [ cover for this fic](http://hamlinart.tumblr.com/post/180286577380/i-was-commissioned-by-the-lovely) commissioned by [kaii](akaiikowrites.tumblr.com) by [hami](hamlinart.tumblr.com) because it's made me completely incoherent
> 
> AND ALSO please, please also check out this [amazing, beautiful artwork drawn by foxkunkun and commissioned by lia, love of my life](https://twitter.com/otasucc/status/1076997524777508865) and know that my friends are amazing and i do not deserve them
> 
> also finally if playlists are your thing, I made one for this fic [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/w8u72bxda6djixl9agtvrh1t3/playlist/5yfTxcgc0Ce3G3h0KCzoiZ?si=QRF8_konQLyDZG9oD0Bs9Q) and accept no constructive criticism on my musical taste.
> 
> I appreciate all of this more than I can say, thank you so much guys!! You can come chit chat with me on [tagteamme @ twitter](twitter.com/tagteamme) or [phaltu @ tumblr](phaltu.tumblr.com) and I’ll see all y’all around for the next fic!!


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